In solitary, it was almost always freezing. Prisoners would wrap themselves in sheets and extra clothes and walk back and forth just to stay warm. Some days, I could see my own breath.
I suffered in silence, but some inmates would rip up their blankets, stuff them into their toilets and start flushing, flooding the unit.
One night, prisoners on the top portion of the unit started to “flood” together. Filthy water poured down from the upper floor to the lower level, flooding the cells there. My cell filled with water up to my knees. Later, as the pipes were clogged, the toilets started to flood, including mine, adding to the mess. Horrified, I jumped onto my bed, but the dirty water started to rise until it lapped at the edge of my mattress.
I yelled for the officers to help, but no one came. After some time, the water stopped rising and began to recede, but the damage was done – my cell was filthy. An hour or two later, an officer came by, and I pleaded with him to open the door.
He smiled. “It’s third shift” – meaning the unit had to stay locked up – “I’m not opening any doors.”
“It’s nasty in here, bro. Please let me at least get the water out,” I begged.
“You’ll be alright,” he said, then walked away.
There was faeces all over the floor. I felt like an animal in a cage.
‘Please no, not again’
My trial began in December 2004 and lasted until my conviction in April 2005. I was kept in isolation until August 2005 when I was sent to NJSP. It had been two years of solitary confinement.
At NJSP, I was immediately placed in a general population unit. I could now go to the mess hall to have three meals a day, access religious services and be put on work detail in the kitchen, laundry or other areas in the prison. I could go to the yard and gym and have regular visitors.
I learned that the only way you ended up in isolation was by getting in trouble. So I made it my business to stay clear of any.
But 17 years later, I ended up in lockup for having an unauthorised USB wire. I was sent to a “temporary” holding cell for prison-related infractions. The tiers above held prisoners doing AdSeg time. Unlike the county jail lockup, this place was loud – ear-shatteringly loud.
Some prisoners were cursing at each other. Others were cursing the cops who, in turn, were cursing and yelling at the inmates. And then there were the door bangers kicking the metal doors of their cells like donkeys. It was a zoo.
The previous occupant had evidently been disturbed. The mattress was in tatters. There was decomposing food. A dried pile of faeces sat in the stainless-steel toilet.
Still, I wasn’t a fresh-faced newcomer anymore. I was now a middle-aged man with nearly 20 years of experience in one of the country’s most notorious prisons.
I mustered my strength and joined the chorus of prisoners, calling on the unit officer for some cleaning supplies and a “night bag” – soap, toothpaste, toothbrush, clothing, toilet paper, a spoon, cup, bedsheets and a blanket.
“What you want?” a young officer, overworked and disheveled, asked me.
I pointed to the faeces on the toilet. He simply shrugged and told me to use the water from the sink to clean it.
“What am I supposed to clean that with?” I asked, agitated.
“Use your hands,” he said and walked away.
It took two decades of patience and self-control for me to hold onto my rising anger.
The next two days, I paced.
It was the third night when I heard the kid next door starting to flush. I knew what was coming, but I had no blankets or sheets to block the door. Dirty water started to pour into my cell. As the water level kept rising, I hopped on my metal bed and prayed that the toilet wouldn’t start overflowing. “Please, no, not again,” I begged.
