How We Survived Extreme Heat in Prison

[soso]

How We Survived Extreme Heat in Prison

Incarcerated journalists detail the first signs of a heat wave in prison — and how they’ve coped with record-breaking temperatures.

Avalon Nuovo for The Marshall Project

By Prison Journalism Project Contributors and Aala Abdullahi

https://www.themarshallproject.org/2024/09/19/prison-journalists-how-to-survive-extreme-heat

Perspectives from those who work and live in the criminal justice system. Sign up to receive “Life Inside” emailed to you every week.

감옥 안 간 사람들은 물론 범죄한 적이 없는 착한 사람들이겠지만

게 중에는 범죄했지만 안 들켜서 감옥에 안 간 분들도 많다 보는데

사실 하나님 눈에는 모두가 죄인이라 감옥보다 더 심한 지옥감이니

감옥의 고통스러운 경험을 통해 지옥을 상기하며 구원을 이룩하자

After a summer of record-breaking temperatures, scientists predict that 2024 could end up being the hottest year on record. For people in U.S. prisons and jails — who often lack access to even the most basic cooling measures — conditions behind bars exacerbate the risks of dangerously high temperatures.

Several courts have ruled that extreme temperatures in prison violate the Eighth Amendment’s provision against “cruel and unusual” punishment. But these rulings have not led to a widespread adoption of air-conditioning or other methods to cool prison facilities or prevent heat-related deaths. Public health researchers at Brown University estimate that just one day of above average summer temperatures is associated with a nearly 4% increase in prison deaths. Suicides spike 23% in the three days following a heat wave. And for every 10 degrees above the average summer temperature, prison deaths increase 5%.

This article was published in partnership with Prison Journalism Project and The Guardian.

As summer temperatures shattered records across the country, The Marshall Project and Prison Journalism Project asked several incarcerated reporters to document the impact of extreme heat on their facilities. Their stories reveal the brutal reality: frequent medical emergencies, increased tension among the incarcerated, and little respite from the heat.

Derek R. Trumbo Sr., 46, Kentucky

Derek Trumbo is a writer incarcerated at Northpoint Training Center. He is a member of Voices Inside, a prison playwrights’ workshop, and he is a multiple-time Pen America Prison Writing Award winner, who has also been published by The Vera Institute of Justice.

The heat affects everyone in prison.

One day in late July, the temperature outside got up to around 100 degrees. The very hot days tend to run together, melting and merging in the heat. But I remember this particular day because during a routine training session of the prison’s Certified Emergency Response Team (CERT) a correctional officer collapsed and died.

He suffered a heart condition. Nurses attempted to resuscitate him, but he passed away at the hospital. The entire prison mourned the 24-year-old man’s passing. Local news stations reported on it, and officers wore black rings around their badges to show solidarity and compassion.

Even though the heat can be deadly, the prison offers little respite. Our windows are riveted shut, and there are no trees in the yard to offer a single lick of shade. In the sweltering blister of summer, the prison’s pastoral landscape — with its amazing sunrises and sunsets — only magnifies the sun’s intensity.

Inside the prison, the dingy white linoleum floors become slick and damp with the brown water oozing from the overhead water pipes that sweat with condensation. The puddles sit as if a small child had spilled ice cream on hot asphalt in the desert.

If the air-conditioning goes out, as it often does during a heatwave, the prison will roll out large industrial fans that circulate the hot air like a convection oven.

The communications director for the Kentucky Justice & Public Safety Cabinet stated that prison leadership equips facilities with free “cooling stations, industrial fans, water bottles, extra blankets and clothing.” They would not comment on specific maintenance issues but added that their leadership “act[s] swiftly and work[s] through the state procurement system to quickly fix.” Regarding details about the facility, they added that the “Department of Corrections does not confirm‎ or deny facility layout and structure.”

Ashleigh Smith, 39, Michigan

Ashleigh Smith is a writer incarcerated at Women’s Huron Valley Correctional Facility. She has taken a creative writing class through Eastern Michigan University and has been published in The Oakland Arts Review through Oakland University.

The first sign of extreme heat in my prison is a smell that comes from the walls, which hold in the heat until they sweat. The stench reminds me of the rolled up floor mats the wrestling team used for practice in high school.

The next signal is when my peers and I change into tank tops or white T-shirts during count instead of the stifling navy blue uniform — even though we risk getting written up. And the final sign is when the prison cancels medical appointments because the administration doesn’t want people overexerting themselves by walking long distances to get to an appointment.

Once, during an exceptionally warm week in August last year, I was supposed to push a friend in a wheelchair a little under a quarter mile to one of the health care areas for a routine treatment, but the unit officers had locked the wheelchairs away to make sure nobody left the unit. It was 103 degrees.

Not having control over the water temperature in the shower is the hardest part of being in prison during a heatwave. When I come back to my housing unit after being called out, and I’m sweaty, I just want to take a cool shower to rinse off. But instead I have to get in a scalding hot shower.

According to the Michigan Department of Corrections’ public information office, incarcerated people “do not risk getting written up if they wear their white [T]-shirt during count.” They also stated that “medical appointments are not canceled due to heat, but some restrictions in movement may be made because of the heat index.” They did not respond to questions about locking away wheelchairs.

Sign up to receive essays like this weekly.

Sign Up

Email list managed by Mailchimp

Ryan Green, 33, North Carolina

Ryan Green is a writer and military veteran currently housed at FCI Butner Medium I. He writes about the treatment of incarcerated people and the need for justice reform.

In a heat wave, the prison doesn’t do anything for the elderly, sick or more vulnerable, even though we are in a medical facility. Once, I had a cellie who had what I thought was a heart attack due to the heat and lack of hydration. He told me he was feeling dizzy, had pain in his chest and arm, and was short of breath. He said that when he went to the medical unit, the staff told him to drink more water and sent him back. But they don’t supply bottled water in a facility where the water quality is known to be bad.

I have no way of knowing how hot it is in the summer months. The one thermostat I’ve seen is in the UNICOR factory, where there is air-conditioning for the safety of the machines. But I know it’s too hot in my prison when I wake up soaked in sweat when the air-conditioning unit breaks in the living areas.

I’ve been in FCI Butner for nearly five years, and I have never seen my facility give us anything for a heat wave. Last spring, staff searched people’s cells, and wound up taking many people’s fans that they had purchased from the commissary. We can’t buy new ones because they no longer sell them.

The commissary sells water bottles for 50 cents, antifungal cream for $2.40, sunscreen for $4.80 and hats for $9.10. Many jobs here pay under 50 cents an hour, so buying supplies is expensive for us.

Citing privacy reasons, a representative of the Federal Bureau of Prisons (BOP) Office of Public Affairs would not comment on the medical condition or treatment of Green’s cellmate. Regarding the water quality, the BOP stated that FCI Butner I, and the larger FCC Butner complex receive water from the same source as the local community and that it “meets community standards.” They also stated that “all housing units at FCI Butner I have functional HVAC air conditioners and ice machines” and that HVAC failures during inclement weather are promptly resolved. The BOP said it could not comment on the cell searches and fan confiscations for security reasons.

James Mancuso, 40, Idaho

James Mancuso is a writer and poet. He was the editor in chief of The High Seas of Saguaro, a prison newsletter published at the Saguaro Correctional Center in Arizona. He is currently serving time at Idaho State Correctional Institution.

When I was incarcerated in a private prison in Arizona back in 2023, the temperature reached 118 degrees one summer. I remember because the prison canceled recreation, but they made everyone stand in an outdoor line under a canopy for medication handouts for about 45 minutes. It felt like we were in an oven. Even the breeze was hot.

In my current prison, older and sick people can have in-house meals so they don’t have to walk across the breezeways that are open to the sun and sky. People in some units have to walk a quarter mile to cross the compound.

During a heatwave we still have to wear our prison uniform: blue jeans and a blue button-up short- or long-sleeved shirt. Thankfully, the prison allows us to wear our commissary-purchased shorts and T-shirts to pick up our meals from the kitchen or go to recreation. But policy requires that we be dressed in our facility uniform for most other activities, including classes and work.

This year, the prison started giving us Gatorade when it gets hot. It can get up to 111 degrees here in Kuna, Idaho. I know because I saw the temperature on the news.

The manager of public affairs for CoreCivic, which operates the Arizona prison referenced, stated that the facility allows “heat-sensitive individuals” to receive their medications in air-conditioned medical unit waiting rooms.

Derek LeCompte, 44, New Jersey

Derek LeCompte has been incarcerated since 1999. An aspiring writer, poet and journalist, LeCompte is in his senior year at Rutgers University through NJ-STEP, pursuing a degree in Justice Studies. He is currently housed at South Woods State Prison.

Most of the time we never know how hot it is in our prison, but there are small digital thermometers in certain areas. Regularly, prison staff will go to units and measure the temps, but they don’t go into the cells, and results aren’t posted for us to see.

During very hot periods, the prison administration will send out memos about taking care in the heat. The prison offers a green “cooling towel,” which you wet with cold water and place on your head or the back of your neck. The towels stay cool for an extended period of time. But we have to buy that from the commissary. Because the commissary always has an issue with keeping high-demand things in stock it can take up to two weeks from order to delivery.

During the summer months, the prison rents what are called “chillers,” which are basically mobile, industrial air-conditioning units that look like a semi-trailer and run on diesel fuel. These chillers are hooked up to the prison’s ventilation system and, in theory, pump cool air into the prison. But the system often doesn’t cool down the prison much or frequently breaks down. The actual air-conditioning system has been broken for over 10 years and the administration has yet to fix it.

Most hot days, we are practically basting and cooking in our cells as if we’re in a brick oven. All the air is hot and recycled through our ventilation system. We can’t even open the windows when it gets cooler at night.

A spokesperson for the New Jersey Department of Corrections stated that there have been “occasions when one of the two chillers have required maintenance, but never both at once.” He said that when one chiller breaks down, the other maintains “a comfortable temperature” and “the vendor is contacted to fix the equipment.” He also added that the department is “aware of the issues with the current chillers at [the prison] and [has] been seeking funding to replace both systems.”

Amy McBride, 61, Pennsylvania

Amy McBride is a writer serving time in the State Correctional Institution at Muncy.

In my previous prison, Maryland Correctional Institution for Women, it would get so hot during the summer that walls would sweat and reek of 85-year-old prison funk. The sweat would make all your belongings smell. It didn’t matter the number of showers you took — you still stunk.

The humidity of the Mid-Atlantic summer also made everything wet. I would think about my dad a lot during those hot summer days because, as a Vietnam vet, he had PTSD, and heat like that triggered him.

People were housed in cells that were so small you could touch the opposite walls at once in that prison. We did our best to keep the sun out — covering the windows with a robe — until a guard forced us to take it down. The heat was unbearable. I remember guards would hand out ice, but oftentimes it was melted by the time you got some.

Compared to my old prison in Maryland, SCI Muncy is like a Club Med resort. Now, on extremely hot days the air-conditioning in my unit is so cold I have to wear thermals, a T-shirt, a sweatshirt, pants and my winter headband over my ears. To keep my hands warm, I blow on my fingers or wear my garden gloves.

On hot Sundays, I can’t wear my hearing aids during church service because the fans sound like plane engines. I can’t hear the sermon and all I can do is pray.

The Maryland Department of Corrections said it takes “multiple steps to mitigate the heat and ensure the health and well-being of both incarcerated individuals and staff.” The department denied that condensation forms on cell walls during the summer months and could not confirm‎ the dimensions of prisoners’ cells.