Esteemed Reader,

It has been several months since the last correspondence was sent. One contributing factor to this hiatus was the author’s extended transit period from FPC Morgantown to FCI McKean, a journey spanning approximately four hours. For much of this time, the author was deprived of access to pen, paper, stamps, and the rudimentary email system employed for sending these letters.

Moreover, upon arrival at FCI McKean, the author experienced a profound sense of shock resulting from the entire ordeal, necessitating a period for decompression and reflection on the month-long trauma associated with BOP transit.

Six days post-arrival at FCI McKean, the author finally committed thoughts to paper in an effort to document the journey. However, the outcome resembled less of a structured letter and more of a cathartic outpouring of emotions pertaining to a harrowing thirty-day experience. Recognizing the need for clarity, the author chose to take a step back and allowed time to pass before dispatching this letter. Gradually adapting to the new environment at McKean, the author will share details about life there in due course, while this letter will focus on the events of early June.

The author intends to examine the entire transit process, providing an explanation for how a journey anticipated to last a mere four hours extended into a month-long saga involving two cross-continental flights, three multi-hour bus rides, a cellmate convicted of murder, and an additional cellmate with gastrointestinal issues. It is anticipated that this account will be published in two parts due to its extensive length. Gratitude is extended for the reader’s continued interest and support.

“The author finally put pen to paper to document […] the absolute worst 30 days of their life.”

On June 5th, the author received notification of a transfer from FPC Morgantown for enrollment in a drug and alcohol treatment program. Successfully completing this program, expected to take approximately 9 to 10 months, offers the incentive of one year off the sentence, thus rendering the inconvenience of relocation seemingly justifiable.

For security purposes, notifications regarding transfer details, including destination and departure timing, remain undisclosed. Typically, during such transfers under BOP custody, individuals are flown via aircraft operated by the U.S. Marshals to a BOP transit hub located in Oklahoma City. After a brief stay in Oklahoma, individuals are subsequently transported to their designated institution. According to information gathered from other inmates, transit duration often spans 1 to 2 weeks.

The cost of transit purportedly approximates $10,000 per inmate. The author speculated that, due to their minimum security classification, nearly two years spent on pre-trial release, self-surrender without incident reports since incarceration, they would qualify for a transfer furlough, wherein responsibility for transportation would rest with the inmate.

However, after submitting an official request for a transfer furlough on June 5th, the author received a denial on June 8th without explanation, indicating that transit through Oklahoma City was inevitable.

At 6:00 AM on June 10th, the author was summoned to Receiving and Discharge (R&D). Unbeknownst to them at that moment, this initiated a month-long experience characterized by involvement with two separate holding facilities, cellmate interactions with convicted murderers, and confinement within iron-barred cells for 23 hours each day, among other challenges.

The process of departure from R&D mirrored the author’s initial arrival experience: they underwent a strip search and were issued ill-fitting attire (including khaki elastic band trousers, a brown cotton shirt, threadbare boxers, unmatched socks, and slip-on blue canvas shoes).

Subsequently, the author was placed in a holding cell while other inmates underwent a similar procedure. On that day, six individuals were being transferred from Morgantown. Each individual was subsequently lined up and shackled. Following this process, the group was escorted to a waiting bus.

“Each individual was lined up and called forward so that the officer could fasten shackles to their ankles and cuffs to their wrists.”

The bus itself was a hybrid of a yellow school bus and a coach, already occupied by inmates from various nearby prisons. The passengers ranged from individuals serving lengthy sentences from federal penitentiaries to those, like the author, facing relatively shorter terms at a camp.

The atmosphere among the bus occupants was generally congenial; many from the USP sought insight into the camp experience and the associated costs of contraband items such as vapes and cell phones. The bus driver and three heavily armed officers, all equipped with stab vests and sidearms, occupied the front section shielded by a metal grate.

As the bus departed Morgantown, the author welcomed the opportunity to observe the passing scenery, a much-awaited exposure to the outside world after a six-month period of confinement. The sights displayed a familiarity—trailer parks, dilapidated gas stations, and adult stores—a captivating reminder of the life outside.

However, after approximately an hour of travel, the bus unexpectedly exited the highway and came to a stop on a side road. Following a twenty-minute delay, an officer approached the bus carrying a bag of biscuits from Tudor’s Biscuit World, a fixture of West Virginia culture. Ultimately, the bus remained stationary as each officer took turns purchasing breakfast, extending the stop to over an hour. The author’s breakfast plans were disrupted when a piece of bread fell from their bag onto the floor, prompting the decision to postpone their meal temporarily.

Before long, the bus resumed its journey only to pull over again, this time for officers to acquire cigarettes and energy drinks. The discomfort from shackles digging into skin, along with the overwhelming noise of the prison bus, compounded the author’s growing frustrations. It is a commonly shared sentiment that the prison bus is remarkably loud, with every road bump producing chaos and raucous conversations echoing throughout.

Approximately five hours later, the author arrived at the Greenbrier Valley Regional Airport, where multiple prison buses were already parked by the runway. In a manner akin to a chaotic game of musical chairs, officers from various buses called out names for what felt like an eternity, during which the author silently hoped to be re-routed to their camp.

Eventually, the author and fellow inmates disembarked, forming lines before waiting U.S. Marshals positioned in front of a plain white aircraft marked solely by a small American flag on its tail. The Marshals conducted a pat-down search and directed the author to line up by the front of the plane under the cockpit. Inmates were packed tightly together in rows, watching as others disembarked the plane only to re-board the buses just vacated.

The logistical complexity of the operation became apparent; although the process was prolonged and cumbersome, the author noted an underlying efficiency. Finally summoned to board the plane, the author experienced a moment of anxiety reminiscent of political figures stumbling up stairs but successfully made it onboard without incident. The flight’s personnel, comprised of Air Marshals, bore a striking resemblance to standard airline staff, leading the author to observe a curious similarity in handling unruly groups.

Seated by the window, the author found company alongside an inmate displaying a striking full-face tattoo. Their conversation revealed a disparity in their experiences, with the adjacent inmate having spent 15 years incarcerated, contributing to a noticeable shift in their dialogue following the author’s clarification of their short tenure thus far.

“This was the first taste of the outside world I had in six months.”

The aircraft bore the wear of age, its design reminiscent of the Cold War era. Safety protocols displayed on the interior surfaces were presented in German and Russian, sparking curiosity regarding the plane’s origins. The inmate population filled approximately two-thirds of the cabin, while the remaining space accommodated at least 30 U.S. Marshals.

Upon takeoff towards Oklahoma City, a flight attendant, or more accurately an Air Marshal embodying a disenchanted stewardess, distributed a second meal—a sack lunch including four slices of bread, a packet of peanut butter, turkey slices, and a small pack of cookies (the humorously named “Cream 4 Fun”, a favored item among inmates). Although disillusioned with the BOP’s peanut butter, the author managed to exchange it with the tattooed inmate. As the author attempted to assemble a turkey sandwich—an effort rendered difficult by shackles—the ingredients’ borderline frozen state became a comedic challenge. Eventually, they settled for cookies as a substitute for a satisfying meal.

Gratitude emerged for the provision of a small bottle of water, though frustration followed when the attempt to open the cap resulted in a spillage. The subsequent portion of the flight consisted of movements to accommodate calls from marshals executing toilet checks, inciting visible distress within the cabin as one inmate decidedly proclaimed his need for a bathroom break, a claim met with mixed reactions.

As the flight neared Oklahoma City, the pilot provided a standard weather update, revealing a sunny 88-degree day, yet failed to mention that the inmates would remain bereft of sunlight throughout their entire stay at FTC Oklahoma City.

Arriving at the airport, the group navigated past the main terminal to an adjacent, unremarkable concrete building approximately six stories tall. Following what felt like an eternity, inmates were facilitated off the plane in a meticulously organized manner, even if the experience itself was largely mechanical.

Upon disembarkation, the author and fellow inmates were subjected to a series of screenings, including searches by U.S. Marshals who were alarmingly unprepared for their roles in overseeing a large group of inmates. The author observed an intrinsic lack of competence amongst the staff, appearing overwhelmed by their responsibilities. Following an extended wait in a holding cell, another officer arrived, indicating a need for five individuals at a time to exit the cramped confines of the space, eliciting a frantic attempt by trespassers to navigate toward the exit.

A process of further strip searches and screenings ensued, where the author was reminded of the nature of their confinement, observing the enduring effects of drug use within the holding area. With a mix of resignation and determination, they edged closer to gaining access to the living quarters while maintaining caution in a chaotic environment.

Following an hours-long wait, the author experienced a moment of reprieve when directed toward a cell. The officer lacking proficiency in communication led the group into a hallway where the presence of cell doors and various disturbances within the space were immediately noted.

“All the author could think of was escaping the confines of that claustrophobic concrete box.”

As hours dragged on yet again in this holding area, the pervasive atmosphere of drug use took center stage. Following another interminable wait, a guard of questionable professionalism facilitated the transition of inmates to their respective ranges, leading to the realization of a present reality far beyond the author’s initial expectations.

The officer guided the group to an elevator, which was promptly filled to capacity. As the author assessed the fellow inmates, a notable trend emerged—many displayed full-face tattoos accompanied by elaborate designs. The author understood with stark clarity that a “camper-only” range was implausible; the reality of shared quarters with potentially violent offenders loomed large.

Once positioned in front of the heavy metal door barring access to their assigned range, the officer struggled to unlock the entrance, eliciting ridicule from inmates who seized the opportunity to express their disdain. The author could not help but find humor in the situation despite the underlying tension among the gathered individuals.

Eventually, the door swung open, accompanied by an almost palpable mix of excitement and trepidation. Entering Range 4D, the author encountered a setting characterized by institutional paint schemes and a disconcerting number of visibly intoxicated individuals. Immediately confronted by those capitalizing on the opportunity to sell drugs, the author felt compelled to decline numerous offers.

Engaging with staff who were equally overwhelmed did little to ease the mounting concern as the officer proceeded to assign cells. When it was the author’s turn to receive directions and allocated resources, the anticipated lack of basic supplies became glaringly evident. The author reflected critically on the obligations of the institution to provide appropriate amenities.

Ultimately, the cell was found to be sparsely furnished; a mere bunk bed, a toilet, a sink, and a desk within a shared space. Upon meeting the unexpected cellmate, named Shadow, a sense of unease mingled with a begrudging desire for companionship. Furthermore, the officer’s repeated failures to provide adequate bedding culminated in escalating tensions and a demand for basic standards in the living situation.

As the lights were turned off for the night, the initial sense of confinement became more acute for the author, who grappled with feelings of regret and longing for family contact. The experience thus far reaffirmed the warnings received regarding the trials of transit and life within the confines of Oklahoma.

The account of transit will continue in Part 2. Thank you for your engagement.

This is a guest post by Keonne Rodriguez. The opinions expressed here are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of BTC Inc or Bitcoin Magazine.

Source link