theintercept--2020-08-14--Party Leaders Investigating Origin of Anti-Morse Campaign Helped Orchestrate It, Documents Reveal

But behind the scenes , the state party had been coordinating with the College Democrats of Massachusetts to launch those very allegations , according to five sources within the state party and connected to the CDMA , a review of messages between party leadership and CDMA leadership , and call records obtained by The Intercept .
The documents show that the Massachusetts Democratic Party ’ s executive director Veronica Martinez and chair Gus Bickford connected the students with attorneys : among them was the powerful state party figure and attorney Jim Roosevelt , who worked with the college group on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ As the primary in Massachusetts ’ 1st Congressional District turned into a national story following allegations of misconduct against Holyoke Mayor Alex Morse , the state Democratic Party declined to weigh in , citing its policy to remain neutral in contested primaries .
The Intercept reported on Wednesday that at least two members of the UMass Amherst chapter had been planning in some form or another to leverage Morse ’ s use of dating apps in the Pioneer Valley against him and in favor of his opponent in the primary , longtime incumbent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Rep. Richard Neal .
On Thursday morning , in the wake of the revelation , Politico reported that Bickford was calling for an investigation “ to examine the conduct of College Democrats who leveled the allegations against Morse.
” On Thursday , the College Democrats posted a statement that apologized to Morse , adding , “ We wrote the letter to Alex Morse ’ s campaign on the advice of legal counsel , ” but did not specify who that counsel was .
Martinez reached out to CDMA members repeatedly by phone and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to and including Thursday , records show .
In text messages reviewed by The Intercept , Martinez takes an active role in directing the group on the strategy behind the letter before and after its release , including coaching on how to interact with the press .
“ They turned to the state party to help them , they thought they ’ d protect them , but instead the state party is trying to destroy them , ” one member of the Democratic State Committee , or DSC , told The Intercept .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ attorney Jim Roosevelt is a major power broker within the state and national Democratic parties and contributed to Neal ’ s campaigns in 2008 and 2016 , giving $ 1,000 and $ 500 respectively , according to records filed with the FEC .
He has a history of tangling with the Bernie Sanders-aligned wing of the party .
In 2016 , he chaired the Democratic National Convention ’ s credentials committee , rejecting Sanders ’ s formal request to remove Barney Frank as the chair of the rules committee , after the Vermont @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to Sanders and his agenda .
A year later , Roosevelt publicly rebuffed the suggestion by Sen. Elizabeth Warren that members of the DNC had tilted the presidential playing field toward Hillary Clinton ’ s campaign .
A former CEO for health insurance giant Tufts Health Plan , Roosevelt will once again co-chair the credentials committee next week at the DNC .
Asked if anyone from the state party leadership ever reached out to him about concerns being expressed by College Democrats , Morse said : “ Never.
” Neal was first elected @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as chair of Ways and Means , has influence over nearly every piece of legislation that passes through Congress .
Morse , backed by Justice Democrats and the Sunrise Movement , has challenged him on his fealty to corporate donors .
If Neal falls , the progressive Rep. Lloyd Doggett , D-Texas , would be next in line for the committee gavel .
The would-be scandal broke into public view on Friday , August 7 , when the Daily Collegian , UMass Amherst ’ s student newspaper , reported that the College Democrats @ @ @ @ @ @ @ him from future events , alleging that he had made students feel uncomfortable by abusing his position of power , making romantic advances , and engaging in sexual contact .
Morse acknowledged in a statement that he had had consensual relations with adult students in the region in the past , defending his right to do so , while apologizing if any students felt uncomfortable .
The mayor had previously been an adjunct professor at UMass Amherst , teaching a once-a-week course , and denied that he had ever slept with one of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ under the university ’ s policy .
No allegation that he has done so has been put forward .
( Today , UMass announced it had hired an independent attorney to investigate whether Morse violated university policies . )
The public condemnation was swift and fierce , but there was little evidence behind the allegations .
No student has come forward to claim any form of harm .
The College Democrats , which had claimed that Morse used their events to meet students , clarified this week that he had in fact only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , which began in June 2019 .
That event was in October .
The allegations landed in part because there had long been rumors about Morse ’ s sexual life in Western Massachusetts political circles , the kind of vague insinuations that are often referred to as common knowledge , though without specifics .
Earlier this year , a Capitol Hill Democrat who works closely with Neal ’ s staff on the Ways and Means Committee said they approached a senior Neal staffer to ask how serious the threat by Morse was to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ concerned , he replied , because the young mayor was known to have slept with college students and that information would emerge at the right time .
That doesn ’ t mean , however , that Neal ’ s team played any role in surfacing those allegations , and he has denied having done so .
“ I learned about the allegations against Mayor Morse the same way everyone else did , in the Daily Collegian last week , ” Neal said in a statement Thursday .
“ I also want to be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ being associated with any homophobic attacks or efforts to criticize someone for who they choose to love .
That ’ s inconsistent with my character and my values.
” “ Any implications that I or anyone from my campaign are involved are flat wrong and an attempt to distract from the issue at hand , ” Neal added .
“ I have been and will remain entirely focused on the respective records of myself and Mayor Morse.
” It is undeniable , however , that the state Democratic Party was behind the emergence @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is supposed to be neutral in contested primaries .
According to the organization ’ s bylaws , “ no officer of the State Committee and no Chairperson of any subcommittee shall use their title or office to endorse and/or otherwise support any candidate prior to a contested Democratic Primary , and no staff member of the State Committee shall endorse or participate in any contested Democratic Primary campaign.
” Martinez and Bickford ’ s decision to push Roosevelt on the group appears to be at odds with that rule .
A DSC member @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the different roles Martinez , Bickford , and Roosevelt played in the development and release of the CDMA letter — as well as the ensuing attempts to cover up their involvement after the fact — make the state party ’ s hostility to Morse , a young gay man , hard to ignore .
“ As a DSC member , it ’ s pretty angering that party resources and party staff were put into an effort to attack a gay candidate , ” the member said .
“ I don ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with the LGTBQ community going forward.
” According to three sources with knowledge of the timeline , party leadership talked to the college group three weeks ago and then referred them to Roosevelt for assistance .
The exact nature of that help , however , is a matter of some contention — details that could be illuminated by the forthcoming investigation .
Bickford , according to Politico , said that the investigation would not begin until after the September 1 primary , so as not to influence the result .
“ The Party @ @ @ @ @ @ @ members of organizations connected to the Party , ” Martinez told The Intercept , claiming the party retained its neutrality in the contest .
“ We referred the individuals expressing these concerns to legal counsel and had no further involvement in the matter.
” Bickford repeated this version of events to another source close to party leadership on Thursday afternoon , but did not respond to requests for comment .
According to multiple sources close to the state party and the College Democrats , who spoke on condition of anonymity , after Bickford @ @ @ @ @ @ @ control of the process and led UMass College Democrats leadership in the letter ’ s composition .
Reached by phone Thursday , Roosevelt told The Intercept he would not comment on work with clients .
Sources close to the college group told The Intercept that a number of members felt the best way forward was a private letter to Morse that would remain between the young mayor and the organization .
Roosevelt dismissed that idea , telling the group that a public letter would be more effective .
The leadership of the UMass @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they leaked the letter , which was published on August 7 , according to members of the chapter .
Some of the leaders of the College Democrats were caught off guard when the article was published , according to the messages .
Some members of the group , however , had been trying to plant the story since at least April , when CDMA leadership began telling members of the high school affiliate about the group ’ s intent to sabotage the Morse campaign , according to three sources within the Massachusetts High @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in April , Grace Panetta , a politics reporter at Business Insider , began to receive emails from a “ [ email protected ] ” email address .
According to Panetta , the body of these emails contained the names and email addresses of three students involved with CDMA who could confirm the vague accusations against Morse , two of whom discussed a plan to sabotage the Morse campaign as far back as October 2019 , as reported in The Intercept ’ s Wednesday article .
Panetta did not bite , sensing something @ @ @ @ @ @ @ attempt to land the story in Politico in June also fell short .
It wasn ’ t until the new strategy was developed — a private letter to Morse that solicited a response , both of which where published by the Daily Collegian — that the group was able to take long-running rumors about Morse and turn them into a potentially career-ending scandal .

As the primary in Massachusetts’ 1st Congressional District turned into a national story following allegations of misconduct against Holyoke Mayor Alex Morse, the state Democratic Party declined to weigh in, citing its policy to remain neutral in contested primaries.
But behind the scenes, the state party had been coordinating with the College Democrats of Massachusetts to launch those very allegations, according to five sources within the state party and connected to the CDMA, a review of messages between party leadership and CDMA leadership, and call records obtained by The Intercept. The documents show that the Massachusetts Democratic Party’s executive director Veronica Martinez and chair Gus Bickford connected the students with attorneys: among them was the powerful state party figure and attorney Jim Roosevelt, who worked with the college group on a letter alleging Morse behaved inappropriately.
The Intercept reported on Wednesday that at least two members of the UMass Amherst chapter had been planning in some form or another to leverage Morse’s use of dating apps in the Pioneer Valley against him and in favor of his opponent in the primary, longtime incumbent and influential House Ways and Means Chair Rep. Richard Neal. On Thursday morning, in the wake of the revelation, Politico reported that Bickford was calling for an investigation “to examine the conduct of College Democrats who leveled the allegations against Morse.”
“They turned to the state party to help them, they thought they’d protect them, but instead the state party is trying to destroy them,” one member of the Democratic State Committee, or DSC, told The Intercept.
Martinez reached out to CDMA members repeatedly by phone and text from at least late July up to and including Thursday, records show. In text messages reviewed by The Intercept, Martinez takes an active role in directing the group on the strategy behind the letter before and after its release, including coaching on how to interact with the press.
On Thursday, the College Democrats posted a statement that apologized to Morse, adding, “We wrote the letter to Alex Morse’s campaign on the advice of legal counsel,” but did not specify who that counsel was.
https://twitter.com/EoinHiggins_/status/1294060420987265024
The grandson of Franklin D. Roosevelt, attorney Jim Roosevelt is a major power broker within the state and national Democratic parties and contributed to Neal’s campaigns in 2008 and 2016, giving $1,000 and $500 respectively, according to records filed with the FEC. He has a history of tangling with the Bernie Sanders-aligned wing of the party. In 2016, he chaired the Democratic National Convention’s credentials committee, rejecting Sanders’s formal request to remove Barney Frank as the chair of the rules committee, after the Vermont senator deemed the former lawmaker too hostile to Sanders and his agenda. A year later, Roosevelt publicly rebuffed the suggestion by Sen. Elizabeth Warren that members of the DNC had tilted the presidential playing field toward Hillary Clinton’s campaign. A former CEO for health insurance giant Tufts Health Plan, Roosevelt will once again co-chair the credentials committee next week at the DNC.
Asked if anyone from the state party leadership ever reached out to him about concerns being expressed by College Democrats, Morse said: “Never.”
Neal was first elected as a representative in 1988, and as chair of Ways and Means, has influence over nearly every piece of legislation that passes through Congress. Morse, backed by Justice Democrats and the Sunrise Movement, has challenged him on his fealty to corporate donors. If Neal falls, the progressive Rep. Lloyd Doggett, D-Texas, would be next in line for the committee gavel.
The would-be scandal broke into public view on Friday, August 7, when the Daily Collegian, UMass Amherst’s student newspaper, reported that the College Democrats had sent a letter to Morse barring him from future events, alleging that he had made students feel uncomfortable by abusing his position of power, making romantic advances, and engaging in sexual contact. Morse acknowledged in a statement that he had had consensual relations with adult students in the region in the past, defending his right to do so, while apologizing if any students felt uncomfortable. The mayor had previously been an adjunct professor at UMass Amherst, teaching a once-a-week course, and denied that he had ever slept with one of his students — behavior which is barred under the university’s policy. No allegation that he has done so has been put forward. (Today, UMass announced it had hired an independent attorney to investigate whether Morse violated university policies.)
The public condemnation was swift and fierce, but there was little evidence behind the allegations. No student has come forward to claim any form of harm. The College Democrats, which had claimed that Morse used their events to meet students, clarified this week that he had in fact only attended a single event throughout his campaign, which began in June 2019. That event was in October.
The allegations landed in part because there had long been rumors about Morse’s sexual life in Western Massachusetts political circles, the kind of vague insinuations that are often referred to as common knowledge, though without specifics. Earlier this year, a Capitol Hill Democrat who works closely with Neal’s staff on the Ways and Means Committee said they approached a senior Neal staffer to ask how serious the threat by Morse was to his boss. He wasn’t concerned, he replied, because the young mayor was known to have slept with college students and that information would emerge at the right time. That doesn’t mean, however, that Neal’s team played any role in surfacing those allegations, and he has denied having done so.
“I learned about the allegations against Mayor Morse the same way everyone else did, in the Daily Collegian last week,” Neal said in a statement Thursday. “I also want to be clear I will not tolerate my name being associated with any homophobic attacks or efforts to criticize someone for who they choose to love. That’s inconsistent with my character and my values.”
“Any implications that I or anyone from my campaign are involved are flat wrong and an attempt to distract from the issue at hand,” Neal added. “I have been and will remain entirely focused on the respective records of myself and Mayor Morse.”
It is undeniable, however, that the state Democratic Party was behind the emergence of the accusations.
The state party is supposed to be neutral in contested primaries. According to the organization’s bylaws, “no officer of the State Committee and no Chairperson of any subcommittee shall use their title or office to endorse and/or otherwise support any candidate prior to a contested Democratic Primary, and no staff member of the State Committee shall endorse or participate in any contested Democratic Primary campaign.” Martinez and Bickford’s decision to push Roosevelt on the group appears to be at odds with that rule.
A DSC member told The Intercept that in their view, the different roles Martinez, Bickford, and Roosevelt played in the development and release of the CDMA letter — as well as the ensuing attempts to cover up their involvement after the fact — make the state party’s hostility to Morse, a young gay man, hard to ignore.
“As a DSC member, it’s pretty angering that party resources and party staff were put into an effort to attack a gay candidate,” the member said. “I don’t know how we can have any trust with the LGTBQ community going forward.”
According to three sources with knowledge of the timeline, party leadership talked to the college group three weeks ago and then referred them to Roosevelt for assistance. The exact nature of that help, however, is a matter of some contention — details that could be illuminated by the forthcoming investigation. Bickford, according to Politico, said that the investigation would not begin until after the September 1 primary, so as not to influence the result.
“The Party was made aware of concerns of several members of organizations connected to the Party,” Martinez told The Intercept, claiming the party retained its neutrality in the contest. “We referred the individuals expressing these concerns to legal counsel and had no further involvement in the matter.” Bickford repeated this version of events to another source close to party leadership on Thursday afternoon, but did not respond to requests for comment.
According to multiple sources close to the state party and the College Democrats, who spoke on condition of anonymity, after Bickford and Martinez recommended him, Roosevelt took control of the process and led UMass College Democrats leadership in the letter’s composition. Reached by phone Thursday, Roosevelt told The Intercept he would not comment on work with clients.
Sources close to the college group told The Intercept that a number of members felt the best way forward was a private letter to Morse that would remain between the young mayor and the organization. Roosevelt dismissed that idea, telling the group that a public letter would be more effective. The leadership of the UMass Amherst College Democrats have denied privately that they leaked the letter, which was published on August 7, according to members of the chapter. Some of the leaders of the College Democrats were caught off guard when the article was published, according to the messages.
Some members of the group, however, had been trying to plant the story since at least April, when CDMA leadership began telling members of the high school affiliate about the group’s intent to sabotage the Morse campaign, according to three sources within the Massachusetts High School Democrats. Around the same time in April, Grace Panetta, a politics reporter at Business Insider, began to receive emails from a “creepyalexmorse@protonmail.com” email address. According to Panetta, the body of these emails contained the names and email addresses of three students involved with CDMA who could confirm the vague accusations against Morse, two of whom discussed a plan to sabotage the Morse campaign as far back as October 2019, as reported in The Intercept’s Wednesday article.
Panetta did not bite, sensing something off about the tip. A subsequent attempt to land the story in Politico in June also fell short. It wasn’t until the new strategy was developed — a private letter to Morse that solicited a response, both of which where published by the Daily Collegian — that the group was able to take long-running rumors about Morse and turn them into a potentially career-ending scandal.


theintercept--2020-08-14--Cuban Man Died of Coronavirus in Private Prison Plagued by Medical Neglect

Félix Repilado Martínez left Cuba with tens of thousands of others in a mass migration via boat lift to what he thought would be a better life in the United States .
Almost exactly 40 years later , on May 18 , 2020 , he died in the custody of the U.S. government at age 67 , having contracted Covid-19 at the North Lake Correctional Institution , a private prison in Michigan .
Martínez was one of the hundreds of noncitizens serving federal sentences at the privately-run Taft Correctional Institution in California who were moved to the North Lake in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ close down .
The Intercept previously reported that North Lake had not been prepared for the influx , and the California transfers — none of whom were sick with the coronavirus prior to the move — were thrust into harm ’ s way .
Both facilities were part of a secretive web of federal prisons that are overseen by the Bureau of Prisons but operated by private contractors .
Called Criminal Alien Requirement prisons , or CARs , they hold only non-U.S. citizens who could be deported at the end of their sentences @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but often have ICE annexes and personnel that take custody of people as they finish their time , and they are the only privately run BOP prisons .
For North Lake , the operator is the GEO Group , a publicly traded detention firm and one of the two largest such companies in the United States .
These prisons often escape scrutiny , falling as they do between the immigration and criminal justice spheres .
Deaths of immigrants held in CARs don ’ t show up in ICE statistics , and the coronavirus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Interviews with Martínez ’ s cellmate and others at the facility , his family members , and relevant documents show that for Martínez , the decision to move him to North Lake was part of a pattern of mismanagement and negligence that ultimately cost him his life .
First his symptoms were barely treated , and then , as he lay gasping for air in his cell , fellow inmates say a nurse and guard were much too slow to call for help .
As another person incarcerated at North Lake , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Believe me , if they take care of business , he ’ s still alive today.
” Florida , Martínez bounced around to Texas and Minnesota before settling down in Washington state , first in Tacoma and then in Seattle .
He met Elaine — who asked that her full name not be used for privacy reasons — at a music club in 2015 , and they quickly became close .
“ Our relationship was not typical , because of the business he was in , which everybody knew .
He didn ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of that , ” she said .
Florida , Martínez bounced around to Texas and Minnesota before settling down in Washington state , first in Tacoma and then in Seattle .
He met Elaine — who asked that her full name not be used for privacy reasons — at a music club in 2015 , and they quickly became close .
“ Our relationship was not typical , because of the business he was in , which everybody knew .
He didn ’ t want me to be a part of that , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the drug business , which he had fallen into after unsuccessful efforts to enter a more mainstream field .
Elaine attributes this to Martínez ’ s undiagnosed ADD and depression , growing up in poverty , and the chronic lack of opportunity afforded an Afro-Latino in Cuba , where his great passion had been folkloric dance .
He had done time on state charges before being arrested by DEA agents for federal possession of crack cocaine in March 2018 .
The arrest hit particularly hard because Martínez had a son who was seven @ @ @ @ @ @ @ also incarcerated .
The boy lived with his maternal grandmother , but Martínez had been caring for him a few days a week .
“ He felt that the worst thing about getting put in prison was that he lost that connection with his son .
He didn ’ t care about himself , he felt remorse for that , ” said Elaine .
“ He was swearing that this would never happen again.
” Once it became clear that the coronavirus pandemic was a dire threat to people in jails in prisons @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Martínez ’ s adult daughter , Feliz , decided they were going to try to have him released on humanitarian grounds .
His public defender , Elaine said , “ wanted me to write a letter to the judge and say that with his age and his health ” – Martínez had a heart condition — “ he was going to die if he didn ’ t get out of there .
Before I could even write the letter , he was dead.
” At Taft , the prison in California , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ good spirits ; his acquaintances there recall a gregarious man focused on turning his life around in the time he had left .
“ Everything was perfect with Mr. Martínez , but as soon as we got here ” – to North Lake — “ maybe a week and a half , two weeks , we pretty much all got sick , ” said Javier Miranda , who knew him at Taft .
Like several others who exhibited Covid-19 symptoms , Martínez was taken to a separate unit where people were monitored and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the way of treatment .
At one point , his condition worsened so rapidly that he was taken to the hospital , but after about a week and a half , according to his former cellmate Roberto Guerrero , he was brought back to general population , without having been definitively told whether he had the virus or not .
“ He said they wouldn ’ t tell him anything , they did the test but wouldn ’ t say whether he had it .
… They took him to the sick @ @ @ @ @ @ @ where they took everyone who got sick , but he was telling me all they gave him was Tylenol and told him to drink water , ” Guerrero said .
“ When he came back , a blind man would see he is still sick , ” said Jdaitawai , who had also known Martínez at Taft .
In a note written to GEO staff and dated April 22 , about three weeks after the move to North Lake and almost a month before his death , Martínez wrote that he was having @ @ @ @ @ @ @ … suffering with strong pain and my left and right lum I see blood and my spits .
… I need to see the doctor soon is possible I need helps to brifts.
” “ He called me before he passed , about a week , and said , ‘ Everything hurts on my body , everything hurts and I can ’ t eat , I haven ’ t eaten in a week.
’ His voice was horrid , ” said Elaine .
“ He was sick , sick , sick .
He @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ready to die.
’ ” In the early afternoon of May 18 , Martínez was using the bathroom when he began to have trouble drawing breath .
Guerrero , his cellmate , noticed and called out for help .
A guard arrived quickly , followed by a nurse .
That ’ s when things started going wrong .
The nurse was attempting to get Guerrero to translate her questions to Spanish as Martínez yelled raggedly that he couldn ’ t breathe .
After a little while , the nurse and the guard attempted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , but instead they dropped him on the floor , where he started losing consciousness .
According to Guerrero , it was about 10 minutes before additional emergency medical personnel were called .
He estimated that a total of about 45 minutes elapsed between the first calls for help and when Martínez was taken away to the hospital .
“ For me , it was an act of medical negligence , and I ’ ve told the authorities , ” he told The Intercept .
“ The reaction that I witnessed was very @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t know what to do.
” Two others who witnessed the incident backed up Guerrero ’ s account of a significant time lag between when the nurse and guard showed up and when Martínez was carried out on a stretcher , unresponsive .
After Martínez ’ s death , GEO Group staff gave misleading information about what had taken place .
Guerrero said he was told that Martínez had died en route to Cadillac Hospital , about a 45-minute drive from North Lake .
He and others also said prison personnel subsequently claimed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ They came back here to clear themselves , said , ‘ We did everything in our power to keep him alive , but we lost him , and he didn ’ t have coronavirus , ’ ” said Jdaitawai .
Elaine said she was told something similar : “ The Bureau of Prisons people said , ‘ Oh , we took such good care of him.
’ They said he had cardiac arrest.
” However , in response to queries from The Intercept , the Mid Michigan Medical Examiner Group — which @ @ @ @ @ @ @ several counties including Lake County , where North Lake is located — issued a letter clarifying that Martínez had died inside the prison infirmary as a result of “ [ b ] ilateral pulmonary thromboemboli associated with COVID-19.
” A spokesperson for the GEO Group referred detailed questions to the BOP , which did not respond .
Donald Emerson , who was the warden of the prison at the time and informed Martínez ’ s family of his death , declined to comment when reached by phone .
According to sources inside and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sometime in late July .
His replacement , longtime former BOP official Angela P. Dunbar , has been named in various lawsuits filed by people under her supervision , including for medical neglect in a prison she oversaw .
( Dunbar could not be reached for comment . )
What is clear is that Martínez ’ s death was not a fluke but part of a larger culture of indifference to the health of the men incarcerated at North Lake .
The Intercept is aware of at least one other coronavirus-related death at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ described similarly lethargic response times to all sorts of medical problems .
One described having had a splitting headache for hours one evening and being ignored as he called for help ; medical staff only responded when he started vomiting , at around 3 a.m. Another had an arm fracture that was not being addressed .
Guerrero said he had been waiting weeks to receive surgery for a rare condition called paraphimosis , which is considered a medical emergency that can cause permanent damage to the penis if left untreated .
About two @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a hunger strike to protest the medical treatment as well as spoiled and irregular meals , lack of privacy , and some other issues .
There were apparently some minor concessions , and it ’ s possible that Emerson ’ s dismissal had something to do with the complaints .
Yet many don ’ t expect the conditions that led to Martínez ’ s death and the rapid spread of disease to fundamentally change .
“ Because you are not American citizen , they don ’ t give a heck about us , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have to get the money , and that ’ s it .
Meanwhile , whatever is going to happen to us , let it happen .
”

In May 1980, Félix Repilado Martínez left Cuba with tens of thousands of others in a mass migration via boat lift to what he thought would be a better life in the United States. Almost exactly 40 years later, on May 18, 2020, he died in the custody of the U.S. government at age 67, having contracted Covid-19 at the North Lake Correctional Institution, a private prison in Michigan.
Martínez was one of the hundreds of noncitizens serving federal sentences at the privately-run Taft Correctional Institution in California who were moved to the North Lake in March and April as Taft prepared to close down. The Intercept previously reported that North Lake had not been prepared for the influx, and the California transfers — none of whom were sick with the coronavirus prior to the move — were thrust into harm’s way.
Both facilities were part of a secretive web of federal prisons that are overseen by the Bureau of Prisons but operated by private contractors. Called Criminal Alien Requirement prisons, or CARs, they hold only non-U.S. citizens who could be deported at the end of their sentences. They are not ICE detention, but often have ICE annexes and personnel that take custody of people as they finish their time, and they are the only privately run BOP prisons. For North Lake, the operator is the GEO Group, a publicly traded detention firm and one of the two largest such companies in the United States. These prisons often escape scrutiny, falling as they do between the immigration and criminal justice spheres. Deaths of immigrants held in CARs don’t show up in ICE statistics, and the coronavirus crisis in these facilities has been little-noted.
Interviews with Martínez’s cellmate and others at the facility, his family members, and relevant documents show that for Martínez, the decision to move him to North Lake was part of a pattern of mismanagement and negligence that ultimately cost him his life. First his symptoms were barely treated, and then, as he lay gasping for air in his cell, fellow inmates say a nurse and guard were much too slow to call for help. As another person incarcerated at North Lake, Omar Jdaitawai, put it: “Believe me, if they take care of business, he’s still alive today.”
Photo: Courtesy of Elaine
After arriving in
Florida, Martínez bounced around to Texas and Minnesota before settling down in Washington state, first in Tacoma and then in Seattle. He met Elaine — who asked that her full name not be used for privacy reasons — at a music club in 2015, and they quickly became close. “Our relationship was not typical, because of the business he was in, which everybody knew. He didn’t want me to be a part of that,” she said.
This business was the drug business, which he had fallen into after unsuccessful efforts to enter a more mainstream field. Elaine attributes this to Martínez’s undiagnosed ADD and depression, growing up in poverty, and the chronic lack of opportunity afforded an Afro-Latino in Cuba, where his great passion had been folkloric dance. He had done time on state charges before being arrested by DEA agents for federal possession of crack cocaine in March 2018.
The arrest hit particularly hard because Martínez had a son who was seven at the time, whose mother was also incarcerated. The boy lived with his maternal grandmother, but Martínez had been caring for him a few days a week. “He felt that the worst thing about getting put in prison was that he lost that connection with his son. He didn’t care about himself, he felt remorse for that,” said Elaine. “He was swearing that this would never happen again.”
“Before I could even write the letter, he was dead.”
Once it became clear that the coronavirus pandemic was a dire threat to people in jails in prisons, and particularly older individuals, Elaine and Martínez’s adult daughter, Feliz, decided they were going to try to have him released on humanitarian grounds. His public defender, Elaine said, “wanted me to write a letter to the judge and say that with his age and his health” – Martínez had a heart condition — “he was going to die if he didn’t get out of there. Before I could even write the letter, he was dead.”
At Taft, the prison in California, Martínez had seemed in good shape and good spirits; his acquaintances there recall a gregarious man focused on turning his life around in the time he had left. “Everything was perfect with Mr. Martínez, but as soon as we got here” – to North Lake — “maybe a week and a half, two weeks, we pretty much all got sick,” said Javier Miranda, who knew him at Taft.
Like several others who exhibited Covid-19 symptoms, Martínez was taken to a separate unit where people were monitored and given temperature checks, though very little in the way of treatment. At one point, his condition worsened so rapidly that he was taken to the hospital, but after about a week and a half, according to his former cellmate Roberto Guerrero, he was brought back to general population, without having been definitively told whether he had the virus or not.
“He said they wouldn’t tell him anything, they did the test but wouldn’t say whether he had it. … They took him to the sick area, they called it quarantine, where they took everyone who got sick, but he was telling me all they gave him was Tylenol and told him to drink water,” Guerrero said.
“When he came back, a blind man would see he is still sick,” said Jdaitawai, who had also known Martínez at Taft.
In a note written to GEO staff and dated April 22, about three weeks after the move to North Lake and almost a month before his death, Martínez wrote that he was having “alergy unusual dry nose, pain … suffering with strong pain and my left and right lum I see blood and my spits. … I need to see the doctor soon is possible I need helps to brifts.”
“He called me before he passed, about a week, and said, ‘Everything hurts on my body, everything hurts and I can’t eat, I haven’t eaten in a week.’ His voice was horrid,” said Elaine. “He was sick, sick, sick. He said, ‘I’m not ready to die.’”
In the early afternoon of May 18, Martínez was using the bathroom when he began to have trouble drawing breath. Guerrero, his cellmate, noticed and called out for help. A guard arrived quickly, followed by a nurse. That’s when things started going wrong. The nurse was attempting to get Guerrero to translate her questions to Spanish as Martínez yelled raggedly that he couldn’t breathe. After a little while, the nurse and the guard attempted to carry him over to his cot, but instead they dropped him on the floor, where he started losing consciousness.
According to Guerrero, it was about 10 minutes before additional emergency medical personnel were called. He estimated that a total of about 45 minutes elapsed between the first calls for help and when Martínez was taken away to the hospital. “For me, it was an act of medical negligence, and I’ve told the authorities,” he told The Intercept. “The reaction that I witnessed was very slow, as if they didn’t know what to do.”
Two others who witnessed the incident backed up Guerrero’s account of a significant time lag between when the nurse and guard showed up and when Martínez was carried out on a stretcher, unresponsive.
After Martínez ’s death, GEO Group staff gave misleading information about what had taken place. Guerrero said he was told that Martínez had died en route to Cadillac Hospital, about a 45-minute drive from North Lake. He and others also said prison personnel subsequently claimed Martínez had died from cardiac arrest. “They came back here to clear themselves, said, ‘We did everything in our power to keep him alive, but we lost him, and he didn’t have coronavirus,’” said Jdaitawai.
Elaine said she was told something similar: “The Bureau of Prisons people said, ‘Oh, we took such good care of him.’ They said he had cardiac arrest.”
However, in response to queries from The Intercept, the Mid Michigan Medical Examiner Group — which serves as the chief medical examiner for several counties including Lake County, where North Lake is located — issued a letter clarifying that Martínez had died inside the prison infirmary as a result of “[b]ilateral pulmonary thromboemboli associated with COVID-19.”
Martínez’s death was part of a larger culture of indifference to the health of the men incarcerated at North Lake.
A spokesperson for the GEO Group referred detailed questions to the BOP, which did not respond. Donald Emerson, who was the warden of the prison at the time and informed Martínez’s family of his death, declined to comment when reached by phone. According to sources inside and outside the prison, Emerson was fired sometime in late July. His replacement, longtime former BOP official Angela P. Dunbar, has been named in various lawsuits filed by people under her supervision, including for medical neglect in a prison she oversaw. (Dunbar could not be reached for comment.)
What is clear is that Martínez’s death was not a fluke but part of a larger culture of indifference to the health of the men incarcerated at North Lake. The Intercept is aware of at least one other coronavirus-related death at the facility, and several men inside described similarly lethargic response times to all sorts of medical problems. One described having had a splitting headache for hours one evening and being ignored as he called for help; medical staff only responded when he started vomiting, at around 3 a.m. Another had an arm fracture that was not being addressed. Guerrero said he had been waiting weeks to receive surgery for a rare condition called paraphimosis, which is considered a medical emergency that can cause permanent damage to the penis if left untreated.
About two weeks ago, other Taft transfers organized a hunger strike to protest the medical treatment as well as spoiled and irregular meals, lack of privacy, and some other issues. There were apparently some minor concessions, and it’s possible that Emerson’s dismissal had something to do with the complaints. Yet many don’t expect the conditions that led to Martínez’s death and the rapid spread of disease to fundamentally change. “Because you are not American citizen, they don’t give a heck about us,” said Jdaitawai. “They just have to get the money, and that’s it. Meanwhile, whatever is going to happen to us, let it happen.”


theintercept--2020-08-15--Inside the Prison Where California's Coronavirus Outbreak Exploded

when he got the news that his transfer had been cleared — as excited as any incarcerated person can be about staying in prison , he might clarify .
Late last year he learned that he ’ d be moving from a maximum security facility near the U.S.-Mexico border to the California Institution for Men , a primarily minimum security prison about 40 miles east of Los Angeles .
He hoped it would be his last stop before freedom .
O ’ Brien , 56 , had just been denied parole , and he hoped the transfer to less secure @ @ @ @ @ @ @ before the board again .
But more than that , he just needed to pass the time .
Having spent all but a couple years of his adult life imprisoned , he knew that a change of scenery would make a difference .
And while Chino looks nothing like coastal Santa Monica , where he grew up , something in the air made it feel more like home .
O ’ Brien and I began writing letters to each other five years ago and have kept in touch ever since .
I didn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; we were both just looking for pen pals .
At that time , O ’ Brien was 12 years into a sentence he ’ d received under California ’ s controversial “ three strikes ” law , following a burglary conviction .
Had he been sentenced for that offense alone , he ’ d have been on his way home by then .
But because it was his third felony , California law dictated that he spend at least 25 years behind bars , and possibly the rest of his life .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ to pass the time .
Last year , California ’ s piecemeal criminal justice reform measures started to give nonviolent offenders like O ’ Brien a much earlier shot at parole .
I wrote him a letter of support for his hearing .
While we were both disappointed by the denial , the move to CIM felt like a good omen .
“ This place is like a park , ” he wrote to me after arriving in March , “ a lot of trees and over 30 cats running around.
” For @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ Brien could see the outside world in motion when he gazed through the prison fence , watching traffic roll by on Chino ’ s Central Avenue .
He marveled at makes and models that didn ’ t even exist the last time he ’ d seen cars on the road .
What had happened , he wondered , to all the Camaros ?
There was only one downside to CIM : sleeping in a large open hall with over 100 other men .
“ Really no privacy at all , ” he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the only downfall.
” The sense of wonder and freedom was soon eclipsed by dread .
Two days before O ’ Brien dated his letter to me , two CIM staff members had tested positive for Covid-19 .
There were few precautionary measures being taken inside the facility at the time , and nobody bothered to tell the inmates that the novel coronavirus had already breached the prison ’ s walls , according to O ’ Brien .
But , as an avid reader of the news , he already knew what was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be long before we are quarantined , ” he wrote to me .
By the time O ’ Brien ’ s dorm was put under a quarantine in late April , CIM was undergoing a full-blown outbreak .
One incarcerated person had died , and more than two-thirds of the 87 people held there who had received tests so far had tested positive .
Now , according to a New York Times database , more than 1,200 cases have been connected to the facility , which had a population of about 3,500 at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ people incarcerated there have died .
That death toll is higher than that of any other California facility besides San Quentin State Prison — and San Quentin ’ s outbreak was imported from CIM .
CIM was patient zero for the pandemic in California ’ s prisons .
The facility was at 120 percent of its official capacity when its outbreak began , and about 200 particularly vulnerable inmates were transferred to other institutions in late May .
But because they were only tested weeks before the transfer , they brought the virus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ San Quentin went from being virtually virus-free to having more than a third of its population test positive .
Twenty-five people incarcerated there have since died .
CIM ’ s response to its own ballooning Covid-19 count has primarily entailed limiting inmate movement , ending outside visitation , placing infected dorms under quarantine , and isolating some of the sickest people , as well as those who test positive .
But these measures have failed to contain the virus .
This failure is due largely to the institution ’ s fundamental design : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ live in large , open dormitories that typically hold 140-200 people in bunk beds separated by only a few feet .
Just a handful of centralized sinks , showers , and toilets are shared between them .
By the prison ’ s own accounting , CIM was overcrowded for much of the pandemic .
It wasn ’ t until June , after the ill-fated transfers to San Quentin , that the facility ’ s official capacity dipped below 100 percent .
Even now , consistently maintaining 6 feet between the dorms ’ occupied @ @ @ @ @ @ @ played a role too .
Though inmates are forbidden from leaving quarantined dorms , CIM has elected to transfer coronavirus-positive people who have recovered from their symptoms into both quarantined and “ clean ” dorms .
Because inmates are not typically retested after once testing positive , these frequent transfers have the potential to introduce or reintroduce the virus into new dorms .
Furthermore , the non-profit Prison Law Office discovered that in one dorm elderly inmates with disabilities and severe preexisting medical conditions have been housed alongside people with active Covid-19 infections @ @ @ @ @ @ @ accessible housing available .
Incarcerated people who spoke with me and other news outlets have also faulted the facility ’ s failure to implement universal mask-wearing until at least the end of April , as well as its reliance on twice-daily temperature checks to identify new positive cases , in lieu of comprehensive testing .
In response to a detailed list of questions , a spokesperson for the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation , or CDCR , insisted that the department has been “ strongly committed to responding to this public health @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the incarcerated population.
” Among other measures , the response cited CIM ’ s construction of temporary housing to relieve overcrowding and increase treatment space for positive cases , its use of town hall meetings and posters to “ educate ” CIM ’ s population about Covid-19 , its provision of personal sanitation supplies , and the regular screening of each housing unit by nursing staff .
But CDCR ’ s confidence in the thoroughness of CIM ’ s response does not appear to be shared by prisoners who still have to spend @ @ @ @ @ @ @ open hall with 100 other people .
When they hear announcements reminding them to engage in social distancing , while sitting on bunks 3 or 4 feet apart from each other , they can ’ t help but question the commitment of prison officials .
“ I think they ’ re trying to ride this out , ” O ’ Brien told me in July .
“ Whoever doesn ’ t make it doesn ’ t make it.
” man with preexisting medical conditions that make him acutely vulnerable to the virus , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s population — half of the people held there at the onset of the outbreak were 50 or older , and the same portion were considered medically high-risk .
It could be argued that O ’ Brien ’ s vulnerability was actually caused by his tenure in California prisons : Within one month of arriving at Pleasant Valley State Prison in November 2005 , O ’ Brien was diagnosed with valley fever , an airborne infection caused by fungal spores found in soil .
While valley fever is not unusual in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Valley is located , infection rates within the prison at this time were man with preexisting medical conditions that make him acutely vulnerable to the virus , O ’ Brien is typical of CIM ’ s population — half of the people held there at the onset of the outbreak were 50 or older , and the same portion were considered medically high-risk .
It could be argued that O ’ Brien ’ s vulnerability was actually caused by his tenure in California prisons : Within one month of arriving at Pleasant Valley @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ Brien was diagnosed with valley fever , an airborne infection caused by fungal spores found in soil .
While valley fever is not unusual in the inland part of central California where Pleasant Valley is located , infection rates within the prison at this time were 400 times higher than they were in the community next door , according to a 2015 investigation by Mother Jones .
O ’ Brien says he and others were exposed due to a major state construction project adjacent to the prison , a claim echoed by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of its cause , O ’ Brien survived his infection and the bout of pneumonia that accompanied it , but it left him with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and permanent scarring on his left lung .
Nearly 15 years later , O ’ Brien stared down another pandemic at CIM .
Though the first two cases at the facility were staffers , the virus soon spread .
The first positive inmate was identified on April 4 , along with 11 more staff .
By the end of the month , the virus had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dorm .
One man , gasping for breath , was isolated , and the entire dorm was placed under quarantine .
Guards told the inmates that “ one of their visitors ” had infected the dorm , according to O ’ Brien , even though outside visitation hadn ’ t been permitted in well over a month and the first positive cases at the facility were staff members .
As a result of quarantine , the dorm ’ s residents lost much of the relative freedom that their reduced custody status entailed .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ reliant on exorbitantly expensive phone calls for contact with friends and family .
They can no longer access their jobs , religious services , self-help groups , the dining hall , and recreation in the large yard with its basketball courts , baseball field , and track .
Instead , if they want to get outside , dozens of men now share three tables , two benches , a handful of pull-up bars , and not much else in the dorm ’ s enclosed 1,650-square-foot yard .
O ’ Brien walks as much @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and alternates sitting between sun and shade .
Given the 100-degree heat that ’ s come with summer , he feels lucky that his yard actually has a few trees .
The irony of being asked to engage in social distancing while being trapped in such close quarters was not lost on O ’ Brien or any of the nearly 100 other men who sleep in the same large hall .
When meals are delivered , they have no choice but to eat them on their beds .
The food now is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ time it reaches the dorm , O ’ Brien said .
( After first hearing this , I bought him a package of food items he can prepare himself while quarantined . )
“ We ’ re still sleeping 3 feet apart from each other , but they ’ re encouraging social distancing , ” James Menefield , who was housed in O ’ Brien ’ s dorm until this month , told me by phone .
“ It doesn ’ t make any sense.
” Though CDCR claims that all CIM staff @ @ @ @ @ @ @ April 7 , Menefield and O ’ Brien don ’ t recall receiving theirs until weeks later .
For at least the first two weeks in April , according to Menefield , inmates who donned DIY masks for their own safety were sometimes threatened with discipline by guards — despite the fact that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention officially recommended universal mask-wearing at the beginning of the month .
Darrell Harris , a trained respiratory therapist incarcerated at CIM , had been telling other inmates to wear masks even before it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to an account he gave the health news website Stat , a corrections officer confiscated his mask on April 1 .
( Face coverings are usually prohibited in prisons . )
Harris appealed the disciplinary action , ultimately requesting that a judge order the facility to return his mask , require CIM corrections officers to wear masks and gloves , and provide cleaning supplies to inmates .
According to Stat , CIM adopted most of Harris ’ s requests as its best practices by the end of the month .
However , while @ @ @ @ @ @ @ provides “ ongoing distributions ” of personal cleaning supplies ( including “ hospital-grade disinfectant ” ) , Menefield and O ’ Brien said that they have received no such supplies , except for 8-ounce bottles of hand sanitizer and bars of soap .
The three masks provided to each incarcerated person at CIM are made from the pants legs of the orange jumpsuits inmates wear during transfers , according to O ’ Brien .
The CDCR spokesperson would neither confirm nor deny this , noting only that the masks are “ made of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” While the prison dithered over the measures it would take to contain the virus in April , cases continued to rise sharply .
The first person incarcerated at CIM to die of the virus passed away on April 19 .
Still , prison staff did not regularly wear masks through early May , despite the new guidelines , according to inmates interviewed by Stat .
Menefield corroborated this account .
“ For a month and a half , staff were wearing masks in a discretionary manner , ” he said , adding @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he observed at any given time during this period were following the guidance .
( In response to questions about staff compliance , the CDCR spokesperson pointed to an April 15 memo “ requiring the use of face coverings with notification that non-compliance would result in progressive discipline.
” ) O ’ Brien , on the other hand , wore his mask religiously from the moment he received it .
“ I am not taking any chances , ” he wrote to me the day after CIM ’ s first Covid-19 death .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ Brien estimates that 98 percent of inmates wear their masks regularly , and he says compliance among staff is now widespread as well ( though he added that it sometimes takes the presence of their superiors to motivate some staff to comply . )
Still , he pointed out , inmates can ’ t really wear their masks while they shower — which they do eight men at a time , with 2 feet between stalls .
The reality of 100 men all eating meals on their beds poses additional challenges for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ April , 25 elderly and high-risk inmates were transferred out of O ’ Brien ’ s dorm and into individual single-bed cells in another building .
The move was , in part , meant to finally enable social distancing in the dorm .
But though the move got the dorm ’ s population to just under 100 , it wasn ’ t nearly enough to create 6 feet of space between each occupied bunk .
“ For every four bunks , there ’ s an empty bunk , ” Menefield told me , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that are occupied , there ’ s only 3 feet of living space.
” testing of people incarcerated at CIM was conducted on May 6 , more than a month after the first positive case .
Of the eight dorms clustered together on O ’ Brien ’ s yard , six came back with at least one positive .
One of the two that did not was O ’ Brien ’ s .
testing of people incarcerated at CIM was conducted on May 6 , more than a month after the first positive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ together on O ’ Brien ’ s yard , six came back with at least one positive .
One of the two that did not was O ’ Brien ’ s .
The relief was short-lived .
Within two weeks of the test , people who had been living in dorms with positive cases were being transferred into the two dorms that were considered clean — including people who had tested positive and subsequently been isolated for two weeks .
Because people who tested positive once were not retested , residents of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ transfers could be introducing the virus into new areas of the prison .
Whether the virus was introduced through these transfers or from some other source — like staff , who were not tested by their employer until late May , and were instead asked to seek their own tests and self-report — every dorm at CIM had been infected by the end of May , and new positive cases popped up again in O ’ Brien ’ s dorm shortly after the transfers .
One of these was his bunkmate .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a positive case .
It ’ s entering its fourth month of quarantine .
The prison administers twice-daily temperature checks , to isolate potential vectors of the virus , but Menefield said that his own experience calls into question their effectiveness .
On the evening of June 7 , his body temperature clocked in at 101 F. He says he was instructed to return to his bunk , take Tylenol , and return for another check in an hour .
By then , his temperature had normalized and he was again cleared to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , however , prison staff shook him awake and told him to report for another temperature check .
This time the reading was 103 F. A doctor ordered that Menefield be given a Covid-19 test and transferred to an isolated unit .
Four days later , his results came back positive .
Menefield thinks the gap between his first reading and his isolation could have put many other residents in danger .
“ For seven hours after presenting with a fever , I was allowed to be around other inmates , ” he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that immediate area — within 10 bunks of me — has [ since ] tested positive.
” O ’ Brien , for his part , has not broken a fever or had any unusual respiratory difficulty since the outbreak began .
He did , however , experience extreme fatigue and mild body aches in late June and spent the better part of the week doing little besides sleeping .
His temperature checks came back normal , so , in the fog of sickness , he wrote it off as a depressive episode .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ of bipolar disorder and depression . )
He recovered after about five days .
Later , when I asked him if he might have had an undetected case of Covid-19 , he thought for a second and said , “ It could be , I don ’ t know.
” He added that he ’ d never had an illness that felt the same way .
Whatever the experience was , O ’ Brien endured it in close proximity to dozens of other inmates .
With only three widespread Covid-19 tests administered since @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in March — the most recent occurred on August 6 — it ’ s entirely unclear the extent to which asymptomatic or partially symptomatic transmission has gone unchecked at CIM .
Another potential blind spot is CIM ’ s decision not to retest people who have tested positive in the past .
Since July , even the temperature checks have largely been limited to inmates who have only ever tested negative , according to O ’ Brien .
A round of testing in July revealed 13 additional positive cases in his dorm , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ arrived in June to replace the first bunkmate who left after catching the virus .
O ’ Brien says this new bunkmate was exhibiting symptoms for weeks prior to being tested — constantly coughing and sweating profusely — but he was not isolated until his results came back positive .
Once the 13 positive cases were moved out , 15 formerly positive people were moved into the dorm to replace them .
Another test in early August , too , resulted in seven new positive cases being shuffled out of O ’ Brien @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the facility ’ s piecemeal and largely unexplained mitigation measures has been the festering of low-level paranoia in the dorms .
O ’ Brien avoids the many inmates who cough and sneeze regularly , and he eyes the formerly positive cases that get moved into his dorm with suspicion .
“ They ’ re not completely healed , ” he told me .
“ I don ’ t know if you ’ re ever completely healed.
” Suspicion of prison authorities is even more acute .
More than once , O ’ Brien @ @ @ @ @ @ @ corrections department ’ s goal is to expose everyone to the virus .
Menefield was slightly more circumspect .
“ Given all of these facts , either staff were grossly incompetent in handling this crisis , or they did this intentionally , ” he told me .
CIM ’ s internal coronavirus policies have received relatively little publicity , but CDCR ’ s transfer of hundreds of inmates from CIM to other facilities without timely testing in late May was widely condemned after it caused the outbreak at San Quentin .
One California @ @ @ @ @ @ @ health screw-up in state history.
” As a result , CDCR ’ s chief medical director was demoted to an advisory role in early July .
O ’ Brien points to this ousting as acknowledgment that the system is not taking appropriate measures to keep him and thousands of others incarcerated at CIM safe .
But it has changed little about the day-to-day operation of the facility .
The paranoia caused by the ongoing outbreak has been blunted by the continuing banality of a regimented daily life spent between the crowded dormitory and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ makes the air in the dorm even more stifling than usual : It ’ s cooled only by fans , not air conditioning , and the exhaust vent on O ’ Brien ’ s side of the building is broken .
So when things start to get unbearable just after noon , he puts his head under a faucet and goes out into the yard to sit in the shade of one of the trees .
He ’ s not as hopeful as he was when he first arrived at CIM , but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by on Central Avenue , reminding him of what it might be like to be free — and to be able to finally prioritize his own safety the way he sees fit .
He ’ s learned in prison that nobody else will .

Donald O’Brien was excited when he got the news that his transfer had been cleared — as excited as any incarcerated person can be about staying in prison, he might clarify. Late last year he learned that he’d be moving from a maximum security facility near the U.S.-Mexico border to the California Institution for Men, a primarily minimum security prison about 40 miles east of Los Angeles. He hoped it would be his last stop before freedom.
O’Brien, 56, had just been denied parole, and he hoped the transfer to less secure housing would look good when he goes before the board again. But more than that, he just needed to pass the time. Having spent all but a couple years of his adult life imprisoned, he knew that a change of scenery would make a difference. And while Chino looks nothing like coastal Santa Monica, where he grew up, something in the air made it feel more like home.
O’Brien and I began writing letters to each other five years ago and have kept in touch ever since. I didn’t contact him as a journalist; we were both just looking for pen pals. At that time, O’Brien was 12 years into a sentence he’d received under California’s controversial “three strikes” law, following a burglary conviction. Had he been sentenced for that offense alone, he’d have been on his way home by then. But because it was his third felony, California law dictated that he spend at least 25 years behind bars, and possibly the rest of his life. So even then, he was looking to pass the time.
Last year, California’s piecemeal criminal justice reform measures started to give nonviolent offenders like O’Brien a much earlier shot at parole. I wrote him a letter of support for his hearing. While we were both disappointed by the denial, the move to CIM felt like a good omen.
“This place is like a park,” he wrote to me after arriving in March, “a lot of trees and over 30 cats running around.” For the first time in decades, O’Brien could see the outside world in motion when he gazed through the prison fence, watching traffic roll by on Chino’s Central Avenue. He marveled at makes and models that didn’t even exist the last time he’d seen cars on the road. What had happened, he wondered, to all the Camaros?
There was only one downside to CIM: sleeping in a large open hall with over 100 other men. “Really no privacy at all,” he wrote to me. “That is the only downfall.”
The sense of wonder and freedom was soon eclipsed by dread. Two days before O’Brien dated his letter to me, two CIM staff members had tested positive for Covid-19. There were few precautionary measures being taken inside the facility at the time, and nobody bothered to tell the inmates that the novel coronavirus had already breached the prison’s walls, according to O’Brien. But, as an avid reader of the news, he already knew what was coming. “It won’t be long before we are quarantined,” he wrote to me.
By the time O’Brien’s dorm was put under a quarantine in late April, CIM was undergoing a full-blown outbreak. One incarcerated person had died, and more than two-thirds of the 87 people held there who had received tests so far had tested positive. Now, according to a New York Times database, more than 1,200 cases have been connected to the facility, which had a population of about 3,500 at the beginning of the outbreak. Nineteen people incarcerated there have died. That death toll is higher than that of any other California facility besides San Quentin State Prison — and San Quentin’s outbreak was imported from CIM.
CIM was patient zero for the pandemic in California’s prisons. The facility was at 120 percent of its official capacity when its outbreak began, and about 200 particularly vulnerable inmates were transferred to other institutions in late May. But because they were only tested weeks before the transfer, they brought the virus with them. As a result, San Quentin went from being virtually virus-free to having more than a third of its population test positive. Twenty-five people incarcerated there have since died.
“I think they’re trying to ride this out. Whoever doesn’t make it doesn’t make it.”
CIM’s response to its own ballooning Covid-19 count has primarily entailed limiting inmate movement, ending outside visitation, placing infected dorms under quarantine, and isolating some of the sickest people, as well as those who test positive. But these measures have failed to contain the virus. This failure is due largely to the institution’s fundamental design: Most of the facility’s inmates live in large, open dormitories that typically hold 140-200 people in bunk beds separated by only a few feet. Just a handful of centralized sinks, showers, and toilets are shared between them. By the prison’s own accounting, CIM was overcrowded for much of the pandemic. It wasn’t until June, after the ill-fated transfers to San Quentin, that the facility’s official capacity dipped below 100 percent. Even now, consistently maintaining 6 feet between the dorms’ occupied bunks is impossible.
Internal policy has played a role too. Though inmates are forbidden from leaving quarantined dorms, CIM has elected to transfer coronavirus-positive people who have recovered from their symptoms into both quarantined and “clean” dorms. Because inmates are not typically retested after once testing positive, these frequent transfers have the potential to introduce or reintroduce the virus into new dorms. Furthermore, the non-profit Prison Law Office discovered that in one dorm elderly inmates with disabilities and severe preexisting medical conditions have been housed alongside people with active Covid-19 infections, ostensibly because there was no other accessible housing available. Incarcerated people who spoke with me and other news outlets have also faulted the facility’s failure to implement universal mask-wearing until at least the end of April, as well as its reliance on twice-daily temperature checks to identify new positive cases, in lieu of comprehensive testing.
In response to a detailed list of questions, a spokesperson for the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, or CDCR, insisted that the department has been “strongly committed to responding to this public health emergency and to protecting both staff and the incarcerated population.” Among other measures, the response cited CIM’s construction of temporary housing to relieve overcrowding and increase treatment space for positive cases, its use of town hall meetings and posters to “educate” CIM’s population about Covid-19, its provision of personal sanitation supplies, and the regular screening of each housing unit by nursing staff.
But CDCR’s confidence in the thoroughness of CIM’s response does not appear to be shared by prisoners who still have to spend every day and night in a single open hall with 100 other people. When they hear announcements reminding them to engage in social distancing, while sitting on bunks 3 or 4 feet apart from each other, they can’t help but question the commitment of prison officials.
“I think they’re trying to ride this out,” O’Brien told me in July. “Whoever doesn’t make it doesn’t make it.”
Illustration: Clay Rodery for The Intercept
As an older
man with preexisting medical conditions that make him acutely vulnerable to the virus, O’Brien is typical of CIM’s population — half of the people held there at the onset of the outbreak were 50 or older, and the same portion were considered medically high-risk. It could be argued that O’Brien’s vulnerability was actually caused by his tenure in California prisons: Within one month of arriving at Pleasant Valley State Prison in November 2005, O’Brien was diagnosed with valley fever, an airborne infection caused by fungal spores found in soil. While valley fever is not unusual in the inland part of central California where Pleasant Valley is located, infection rates within the prison at this time were 400 times higher than they were in the community next door, according to a 2015 investigation by Mother Jones. O’Brien says he and others were exposed due to a major state construction project adjacent to the prison, a claim echoed by prison officials at the time. Regardless of its cause, O’Brien survived his infection and the bout of pneumonia that accompanied it, but it left him with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and permanent scarring on his left lung.
Nearly 15 years later, O’Brien stared down another pandemic at CIM. Though the first two cases at the facility were staffers, the virus soon spread. The first positive inmate was identified on April 4, along with 11 more staff. By the end of the month, the virus had arrived in O’Brien’s dorm. One man, gasping for breath, was isolated, and the entire dorm was placed under quarantine. Guards told the inmates that “one of their visitors” had infected the dorm, according to O’Brien, even though outside visitation hadn’t been permitted in well over a month and the first positive cases at the facility were staff members.
As a result of quarantine, the dorm’s residents lost much of the relative freedom that their reduced custody status entailed. With no visitors allowed, they are reliant on exorbitantly expensive phone calls for contact with friends and family. They can no longer access their jobs, religious services, self-help groups, the dining hall, and recreation in the large yard with its basketball courts, baseball field, and track. Instead, if they want to get outside, dozens of men now share three tables, two benches, a handful of pull-up bars, and not much else in the dorm’s enclosed 1,650-square-foot yard. O’Brien walks as much as he can in the limited space, and alternates sitting between sun and shade. Given the 100-degree heat that’s come with summer, he feels lucky that his yard actually has a few trees.
The irony of being asked to engage in social distancing while being trapped in such close quarters was not lost on O’Brien or any of the nearly 100 other men who sleep in the same large hall. When meals are delivered, they have no choice but to eat them on their beds. The food now is often uncooked, or cold by the time it reaches the dorm, O’Brien said. (After first hearing this, I bought him a package of food items he can prepare himself while quarantined.)
“We’re still sleeping 3 feet apart from each other, but they’re encouraging social distancing,” James Menefield, who was housed in O’Brien’s dorm until this month, told me by phone. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
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Though CDCR claims that all CIM staff and inmates were provided with masks on April 7, Menefield and O’Brien don’t recall receiving theirs until weeks later. For at least the first two weeks in April, according to Menefield, inmates who donned DIY masks for their own safety were sometimes threatened with discipline by guards — despite the fact that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention officially recommended universal mask-wearing at the beginning of the month.
Darrell Harris, a trained respiratory therapist incarcerated at CIM, had been telling other inmates to wear masks even before it became government policy. But, according to an account he gave the health news website Stat, a corrections officer confiscated his mask on April 1. (Face coverings are usually prohibited in prisons.) Harris appealed the disciplinary action, ultimately requesting that a judge order the facility to return his mask, require CIM corrections officers to wear masks and gloves, and provide cleaning supplies to inmates.
According to Stat, CIM adopted most of Harris’s requests as its best practices by the end of the month. However, while the CDCR spokesperson told me that CIM provides “ongoing distributions” of personal cleaning supplies (including “hospital-grade disinfectant”), Menefield and O’Brien said that they have received no such supplies, except for 8-ounce bottles of hand sanitizer and bars of soap.
The three masks provided to each incarcerated person at CIM are made from the pants legs of the orange jumpsuits inmates wear during transfers, according to O’Brien. The CDCR spokesperson would neither confirm nor deny this, noting only that the masks are “made of two layers of 100 percent cotton twill.”
While the prison dithered over the measures it would take to contain the virus in April, cases continued to rise sharply.
While the prison dithered over the measures it would take to contain the virus in April, cases continued to rise sharply. The first person incarcerated at CIM to die of the virus passed away on April 19. Still, prison staff did not regularly wear masks through early May, despite the new guidelines, according to inmates interviewed by Stat. Menefield corroborated this account.
“For a month and a half, staff were wearing masks in a discretionary manner,” he said, adding that only about a quarter of staff he observed at any given time during this period were following the guidance. (In response to questions about staff compliance, the CDCR spokesperson pointed to an April 15 memo “requiring the use of face coverings with notification that non-compliance would result in progressive discipline.”)
O’Brien, on the other hand, wore his mask religiously from the moment he received it. “I am not taking any chances,” he wrote to me the day after CIM’s first Covid-19 death. “I sleep wearing one.”
O’Brien estimates that 98 percent of inmates wear their masks regularly, and he says compliance among staff is now widespread as well (though he added that it sometimes takes the presence of their superiors to motivate some staff to comply.) Still, he pointed out, inmates can’t really wear their masks while they shower — which they do eight men at a time, with 2 feet between stalls. The reality of 100 men all eating meals on their beds poses additional challenges for containing the airborne virus.
In late April, 25 elderly and high-risk inmates were transferred out of O’Brien’s dorm and into individual single-bed cells in another building. The move was, in part, meant to finally enable social distancing in the dorm. But though the move got the dorm’s population to just under 100, it wasn’t nearly enough to create 6 feet of space between each occupied bunk.
“For every four bunks, there’s an empty bunk,” Menefield told me, “but in between those four bunks that are occupied, there’s only 3 feet of living space.”
Illustration: Clay Rodery for The Intercept
The first comprehensive
testing of people incarcerated at CIM was conducted on May 6, more than a month after the first positive case. Of the eight dorms clustered together on O’Brien’s yard, six came back with at least one positive. One of the two that did not was O’Brien’s.
The relief was short-lived. Within two weeks of the test, people who had been living in dorms with positive cases were being transferred into the two dorms that were considered clean — including people who had tested positive and subsequently been isolated for two weeks. Because people who tested positive once were not retested, residents of the “clean” dorms worried that the transfers could be introducing the virus into new areas of the prison.
Whether the virus was introduced through these transfers or from some other source — like staff, who were not tested by their employer until late May, and were instead asked to seek their own tests and self-report — every dorm at CIM had been infected by the end of May, and new positive cases popped up again in O’Brien’s dorm shortly after the transfers. One of these was his bunkmate. The dorm has never gone two weeks without a positive case. It’s entering its fourth month of quarantine.
The prison administers twice-daily temperature checks, to isolate potential vectors of the virus, but Menefield said that his own experience calls into question their effectiveness. On the evening of June 7, his body temperature clocked in at 101 F. He says he was instructed to return to his bunk, take Tylenol, and return for another check in an hour. By then, his temperature had normalized and he was again cleared to return to his bunk.
That night, however, prison staff shook him awake and told him to report for another temperature check. This time the reading was 103 F. A doctor ordered that Menefield be given a Covid-19 test and transferred to an isolated unit. Four days later, his results came back positive. Menefield thinks the gap between his first reading and his isolation could have put many other residents in danger.
“For seven hours after presenting with a fever, I was allowed to be around other inmates,” he told me. “Every inmate in that immediate area — within 10 bunks of me — has [since] tested positive.”
O’Brien, for his part, has not broken a fever or had any unusual respiratory difficulty since the outbreak began. He did, however, experience extreme fatigue and mild body aches in late June and spent the better part of the week doing little besides sleeping. His temperature checks came back normal, so, in the fog of sickness, he wrote it off as a depressive episode. (O’Brien has a history of bipolar disorder and depression.) He recovered after about five days. Later, when I asked him if he might have had an undetected case of Covid-19, he thought for a second and said, “It could be, I don’t know.” He added that he’d never had an illness that felt the same way. Whatever the experience was, O’Brien endured it in close proximity to dozens of other inmates.
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With only three widespread Covid-19 tests administered since the facility’s first cases appeared in March — the most recent occurred on August 6 — it’s entirely unclear the extent to which asymptomatic or partially symptomatic transmission has gone unchecked at CIM. Another potential blind spot is CIM’s decision not to retest people who have tested positive in the past. Since July, even the temperature checks have largely been limited to inmates who have only ever tested negative, according to O’Brien.
A round of testing in July revealed 13 additional positive cases in his dorm, including his new bunkmate, who had arrived in June to replace the first bunkmate who left after catching the virus. O’Brien says this new bunkmate was exhibiting symptoms for weeks prior to being tested — constantly coughing and sweating profusely — but he was not isolated until his results came back positive. Once the 13 positive cases were moved out, 15 formerly positive people were moved into the dorm to replace them. Another test in early August, too, resulted in seven new positive cases being shuffled out of O’Brien’s dorm.
The result of the facility’s piecemeal and largely unexplained mitigation measures has been the festering of low-level paranoia in the dorms. O’Brien avoids the many inmates who cough and sneeze regularly, and he eyes the formerly positive cases that get moved into his dorm with suspicion. “They’re not completely healed,” he told me. “I don’t know if you’re ever completely healed.”
A California legislator called it “the worst prison health screw-up in state history.”
Suspicion of prison authorities is even more acute. More than once, O’Brien has told me that he thinks the corrections department’s goal is to expose everyone to the virus. Menefield was slightly more circumspect. “Given all of these facts, either staff were grossly incompetent in handling this crisis, or they did this intentionally,” he told me.
CIM’s internal coronavirus policies have received relatively little publicity, but CDCR’s transfer of hundreds of inmates from CIM to other facilities without timely testing in late May was widely condemned after it caused the outbreak at San Quentin. One California legislator called it “the worst prison health screw-up in state history.” As a result, CDCR’s chief medical director was demoted to an advisory role in early July.
O’Brien points to this ousting as acknowledgment that the system is not taking appropriate measures to keep him and thousands of others incarcerated at CIM safe. But it has changed little about the day-to-day operation of the facility. The paranoia caused by the ongoing outbreak has been blunted by the continuing banality of a regimented daily life spent between the crowded dormitory and the spartan yard. The summer heat makes the air in the dorm even more stifling than usual: It’s cooled only by fans, not air conditioning, and the exhaust vent on O’Brien’s side of the building is broken. So when things start to get unbearable just after noon, he puts his head under a faucet and goes out into the yard to sit in the shade of one of the trees. He’s not as hopeful as he was when he first arrived at CIM, but he can still see the cars zooming by on Central Avenue, reminding him of what it might be like to be free — and to be able to finally prioritize his own safety the way he sees fit. He’s learned in prison that nobody else will.