theintercept--2020-04-21--Brenda Jones Took Illegal Campaign Cash From Donors Doing Business With the City of Detroit

President and former U.S. Rep. Brenda Jones accepted campaign contributions that violate state rules against pay-to-play activity , according to a review of campaign finance records and interviews with ethics experts .
During her 2017 bid for reelection to city council , Jones accepted $ 5,500 in campaign contributions from then-First Independence Bank Chair and CEO Barry Clay , and an additional $ 4,000 in campaign contributions from First Independence Bank board member Douglas Diggs .
The donations occurred as First Independence had a contract with the Detroit police and fire pension fund , of which Jones , as president @ @ @ @ @ @ @ trustee .
First Independence runs a loan program for the pension fund .
State rules cap campaign contributions from senior leadership of contractors with public pension funds at $ 350 per election .
For the 2017 primary and the general election combined , then , the cap was $ 700 .
Now , Jones is running in a competitive race against incumbent Rep. Rashida Tlaib .
In 2018 , Jones , who was first elected to Detroit City Council in 2005 , was elected to serve out the remainder of Rep. John Conyers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his early resignation .
In the primary , she faced off against Tlaib , who bested Jones by just 900 votes and went on to win that race and claim the seat .
The rematch will take place on August 4 .
“ The conduct certainly looks to me to be in violation of the relevant law , ” said Duke Law professor James Cox , who has studied ethics and pay-to-play issues .
“ It strikes me as pretty blatant.
” Another First Independence Board member , Alan Young , contributed $ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 100 over the limit .
The political action committee for the Clark Hill law firm , which is of counsel to the pension fund , donated $ 850 — $ 150 over the limit .
Clay and Young also donated $ 500 and $ 250 , respectively , to Jones ’ s 2018 congressional campaign .
It is unclear whether federal campaign contributions apply to the state pay-to-play rules .
Mario Morrow , spokesperson for First Independence Bank , said in a statement to The Intercept on Monday afternoon that the bank would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you for reaching out to First Independence Bank and bringing this matter to our attention , ” he wrote .
“ We will formally review this issue immediately .
We will also be contacting our board members to make sure that they are aware of the state and federal regulations .
In addition , we will also seek counsel from our attorneys on what next steps need to be taken.
” Jones did not respond to requests for comment .

Detroit City Council President and former U.S. Rep. Brenda Jones accepted campaign contributions that violate state rules against pay-to-play activity, according to a review of campaign finance records and interviews with ethics experts. During her 2017 bid for reelection to city council, Jones accepted $5,500 in campaign contributions from then-First Independence Bank Chair and CEO Barry Clay, and an additional $4,000 in campaign contributions from First Independence Bank board member Douglas Diggs. The donations occurred as First Independence had a contract with the Detroit police and fire pension fund, of which Jones, as president of the city council, is a trustee. First Independence runs a loan program for the pension fund.
State rules cap campaign contributions from senior leadership of contractors with public pension funds at $350 per election. For the 2017 primary and the general election combined, then, the cap was $700.
Now, Jones is running in a competitive race against incumbent Rep. Rashida Tlaib. In 2018, Jones, who was first elected to Detroit City Council in 2005, was elected to serve out the remainder of Rep. John Conyers Jr.’s term in Congress after his early resignation. In the primary, she faced off against Tlaib, who bested Jones by just 900 votes and went on to win that race and claim the seat. The rematch will take place on August 4.
“The conduct certainly looks to me to be in violation of the relevant law,” said Duke Law professor James Cox, who has studied ethics and pay-to-play issues. “It strikes me as pretty blatant.”
Another First Independence Board member, Alan Young, contributed $800 during the 2017 cycle — $100 over the limit. The political action committee for the Clark Hill law firm, which is of counsel to the pension fund, donated $850 — $150 over the limit. Clay and Young also donated $500 and $250, respectively, to Jones’s 2018 congressional campaign. It is unclear whether federal campaign contributions apply to the state pay-to-play rules.
Mario Morrow, spokesperson for First Independence Bank, said in a statement to The Intercept on Monday afternoon that the bank would immediately review the payments. “Thank you for reaching out to First Independence Bank and bringing this matter to our attention,” he wrote. “We will formally review this issue immediately. We will also be contacting our board members to make sure that they are aware of the state and federal regulations. In addition, we will also seek counsel from our attorneys on what next steps need to be taken.”
Jones did not respond to requests for comment.
“There is no way of reading [the contributions to Jones’s council campaigns as] other than a violation of the pay-to-play law,” said Craig Holman, an ethics lobbyist with the good government group Public Citizen. “The law is very clear: A ‘covered associate’ of a service provider, which is defined as any authoritative individual [of the firm], is expressly prohibited from making campaign contributions in excess of $350 to their own governmental representatives or $150 to any other official per election. Barry Clay, Alan Young, and Douglass Diggs were all covered associates subject to this limit. And all violated the limit.”
“This is pay-to-play politics at its classic behavior,” continued Holman. “Executives of an enterprise that depends on government contracts seeking to curry favor with officials responsible for awarding the contracts by handing campaign cash to those same officials. Both the enterprise and the officials who accepted those campaign contributions should face the consequences of violating the law.”
Both First Independence Bank and the Detroit police and fire pension fund have been mired in controversy in recent years. Former Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick made thousands of dollars in monthly cash deposits into his account at First Independence, an activity that failed to trigger the bank’s anti-money laundering compliance protocols. The bank, which is based in Detroit and has three branches, was later fined $250,000 for violations of Bank Secrecy Act and anti-money laundering regulations.
Diggs banked with First Independence while he was a receiver for an earlier real estate investment made by the pension fund that had gone wrong. Diggs paid himself $132,500 out of funds that should have gone to the pension.
The investigation into Kilpatrick’s administration produced indictments for two former trustees, two former investment advisers, and the former counsel to Detroit police and fire pension fund. To replace the indicted counsel, pension fund trustees hired Joseph Turner of the Clark Hill law firm 2013, who later admitted in court testimony that he had provided envelopes full of $100 bills to trustees of the fund at parties. After the “gifts” were made, Turner’s hourly rate as special counsel increased from $225 to $300. Turner and his wife have donated over $2,200 to Jones’s campaigns for city council from 2011 to 2017. None of Turner’s contributions violated the pay-to-play rules. Turner remains at Clark Hill. A different Clark Hill attorney, Ron King, is now the counsel to the fund. In total, Clark Hill, its PAC, and its attorneys have donated over $5,000 to Jones and her city council and congressional campaigns. Neither Turner nor Clark Hill responded to requests for comment.
Ted Siedle, a former attorney with the Securities and Exchange Commission and author of “Who Stole My Pension?” underscored the importance of pay-to-play rules: Pension funds are stewarding large pots of assets and campaign contributions from vendors can warp the process away from sound financial management.
“Pay-to-play rules are commonplace and they are created in recognition of the fact that campaign contributions from would-be vendors can undermine the management of pensions” said Siedle. “The business of pensions is managing or safeguarding assets. The concern in the pension context is does pay-to-play undermine the protection of the assets? In other contexts, pay-to-play rules can be created to ensure that roads don’t get built by poor contractors — here the goal is to ensure that the assets of retirees are protected.”
The pension funds have been a controversial political issue in Detroit, as the city’s bankruptcy resulted in cost of living adjustment cuts of more than 50 percent, and substantial reductions to retiree health care benefits.


theintercept--2020-04-21--Prisons Launch “Absurd” Attempt to Detect Coronavirus in Inmate Phone Calls

in at least three states are using software to scan inmate calls for mentions of the coronavirus , a move advocacy groups believe paves the way for abuse while raising stark questions about carceral health care .
The monitoring software was created by LEO Technologies , a Los Angeles company backed primarily by scandal-plagued Republican fundraiser Elliott Broidy .
Known as Verus , it was first deployed several years ago to forestall suicide attempts , mine calls for investigative tips , and for a range of other purposes .
In recent weeks , it has been marketed as a system @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the COVID-19 pandemic across our nation ’ s jail and prison facilities ” by alerting prison authorities to sickness-related conversations between inmates and the outside world .
“ It automatically downloads , analyzes , and transcribes all recorded inmate calls , proactively flagging them for review , ” explains a Verus product brochure , which also claims this “ near real-time intelligence ” can be used to identify sick inmates , help allocate personnel in understaffed prisons , and even prevent “ COVID-19 related murder.
” The brochure touts Verus ’ s “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” and provides what it says are real-world examples of Verus already at work in undisclosed prison facilities .
One shows a conversation flagged for the mention of a “ disease in here , ” while other inmate conversations are depicted as captured for merely mentioning a “ cough ” or “ sneezing.
” “ It really is a tool for providing medical surveillance , ” LEO Technologies CEO Scott Kernan said .
In one example listed on the brochure , however , the software flags an exchange based exclusively on what a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ person — suggesting that the system might serve to monitor public perceptions of prison management and not just the health of incarcerated people .
Coronavirus monitoring trials have begun at prisons in Alabama , California , and Georgia , Kernan said , adding that there may be further deployments he could not immediately detail .
While monitoring prisoner calls for Covid-19 keywords could in theory be used to get help to sick inmates , it could also be just as easily wielded to suppress news of their sickness or to retaliate against those @ @ @ @ @ @ @ This strikes me as nothing more than opportunistic branding of a problematic technology , ” Shilpi Agarwal , a senior attorney with the American Civil Liberties Union of Northern California , told The Intercept .
“ Obviously , people talking about COVID-19 on the phone does not necessarily mean they are infected with COVID-19 .
The whole world is talking about the virus right now.
” Agarwal added that “ it ’ s not at all clear that any of the monitoring and analysis would be accurate , ” as “ we know @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Moreover , we also know that this kind of recording technology has been misused in the past to financially exploit inmates and to spy on their conversations with attorneys.
” Advocates for incarcerated people said they feared the technology would be used against those discussing the virus with people outside .
“ We ’ ve been using words that would trigger the keywords that were advertised on that document , ” said Sarah Hamid , an organizer with the Carceral Tech Resistance Network , whose volunteers work closely with incarcerated people .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ don ’ t know what the ramifications are of using those words .
Like , if somebody uses the word ‘ coughing , ’ will their entire dorm be put under lockdown or something like that ?
” “ We don ’ t know what the retaliation is going to be for using those words on the phone so we ’ ve been having to scramble to figure out , do we need to use code words ?
Somebody suggested using a different language but we found out the software works in Spanish @ @ @ @ @ @ @ works on Spanish .
“ Even Spanglish , ” he said .
How It Works — and Who Pays For It According to LEO Technologies ’ website , the Verus system operates in at least 26 facilities in 11 states , including uses not specific to the coronavirus .
In an interview with The Intercept , Kernan said that prisons use Verus by telling their phone service provider to share call data with LEO Technologies ; LEO then routes this data through Amazon ’ s cloud computing division , Amazon Web Services , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ then shared back to LEO for keyword analysis by its staff .
The LEO Technologies website notes the company is part of the “ AWS partner network , ” an Amazon initiative that “ helps companies build , market , and sell their AWS offerings by providing valuable business , technical , and marketing support , ” per an Amazon web page .
Amazon did not respond to a request for comment .
Kernan , a former California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation secretary , also sits on the board of the GEO @ @ @ @ @ @ @ private prison corporations and the largest operator of immigration detention facilities in the country .
LEO Technologies is funded by Elliott Broidy , a Trump insider and former national deputy finance chair of the Republican National Committee whose office was raided in 2018 as part of a Justice Department investigation into money laundering and foreign influence peddling .
The Intercept previously reported that another Broidy company made plans to peddle surveillance software to oppressive government customers worldwide .
Broidy resigned from the RNC after reports of his $ 1.6 million settlement and nondisclosure @ @ @ @ @ @ @ negotiated by former Trump attorney Michael Cohen , and related allegations of sexual misconduct .
In 2009 , Broidy pleaded guilty to a felony bribery charge in the New York State Supreme Court involving payments to staffers in the state comptroller ’ s office .
Kernan said Broidy is not involved with LEO Technologies ’ operations .
“ He ’ s truly just a financial backer for the company , ” he told The Intercept .
Broidy Capital , Broidy ’ s investment firm , did not respond to a request for comment @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tools , the marketing of Verus tilts toward the benevolent , positioning the software as a way to keep inmates and prison staff safe .
The nation ’ s leading providers of inmate calling systems , Securus Technologies and Global Tel Link , have long touted their phone systems as perfect tools for this .
They record nearly every phone call made by inmates — which they insist are stored securely — and provide tools for analysis .
The main selling point for Verus , it seems , is that it can accomplish @ @ @ @ @ @ @ also be cause for additional concern .
While inmates — and by extension , their loved ones — generally lose their right to private communications while incarcerated , that is not absolute : Inmates retain the right to privileged communications with their attorneys .
Attorney phone numbers are supposed to be noted within call monitoring systems so that they are not recorded , but there is ample evidence that is not always the case .
Indeed , a purloined trove of calls recorded and stored by Securus demonstrates that both promises — of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ aren ’ t necessarily to be trusted .
In 2015 , The Intercept received more than 70 million hacked records of phone calls , placed by prisoners to at least 37 states , along with links to those recordings .
Within the cache , we found at least 14,000 recordings of calls to attorneys , a strong indication that privileged communications were also recorded .
Because the Verus system works with a prison facility ’ s current phone system , the possibility that privileged communications will also be transcribed is troubling .
Moreover @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at least two more layers of access to inmate calls — by LEO Technologies and by Amazon — in turn increasing access to potentially private communications .
According to Kernan , Verus has to date transcribed 84,068,940 minutes of calls : 159 years of transcribed speech .
“ The history of this industry does not inspire confidence in terms of their ability to appropriately handle and protect confidential information , ” said David Fathi , director of the ACLU ’ s National Prison Project .
“ And any time you add an additional @ @ @ @ @ @ @ additional step into the process , that can only increase the risk of a privacy breach.
” There are also questions about who exactly will pay for this additional monitoring .
Securus and GTL are notorious for the high cost of their services , a burden borne almost exclusively by inmate families , the very people least able to afford it .
Kernan said that Verus costs 6-8 cents per minute , and that facilities pay for it in a variety of ways .
Some are getting Covid-19-related grant funding , he said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ via the phone system .
In other words , there ’ s every reason to think that inmate families may end up footing the bill .
And as with any AI-powered surveillance tool , there are crucial questions about Verus ’ s accuracy , fairness , and accountability .
Kernan said the tool ’ s accuracy isn ’ t subject to any outside audit or evaluation , adding that he wouldn ’ t be opposed to that , nor is there any hard and fast rule about who handles inmate call data or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ potential for abuse , Kernan said that how Verus is ultimately used is the business of each prison .
“ Our company points [ prisons ] to a point in the call where a word or phrase was said that they have concerns about , ” he said .
“ What they do with that information is purely out of our control.
” Kernan told The Intercept he was not aware of any instances of Verus call data being used to retaliate against inmates monitored by the service .
Advocates warn that because @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it is likely to be “ rife with errors , ” as Hamid , the Carceral Tech Resistance Network organizer , put it .
Hamid said incarcerated people have no way to question the validity of the software ’ s findings or even know it exists or how it works .
“ There is no capacity for meaningful consent in a carceral condition , ” she said .
“ And there ’ s a lot of experimentation with these technologies.
” Hamid also warned that while Verus is being marketed to respond to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ indicative of a more enduring shift in the management of prison surveillance technology in which individual facilities have more leeway in how they use new tools .
“ There just seems to be this move to create crisis management systems that are small enough that they ’ re able to package them within an institution , like early-warning systems and things like that , ” said Hamid .
“ If your phone company is the one that ’ s doing your early-warning risk assessment for you , then that ’ s not actionable @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are doing that .
… And that kind of fragments what the data protocols are , and it ’ s going to be by institution , and many of these institutions are going to be private institutions , and they ’ re not going to care about anything.
” “ This is a new trend , and we ’ re seeing the pivot through Covid.
” This devolution in control of prison tech is all the more alarming given how little accountability there is for the companies that make such systems .
LEO @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it does not “ necessarily have liability or ‘ duty to act ’ ” based on what is in the transcripts it provides .
Instead , its software “ Verus puts this critical capability into the hands of your facility ’ s personnel , resulting in swift responses to crises and immediately actionable intelligence.
” It ’ s not immediately clear how monitoring conversations about Covid-19 can prevent incarcerated people from becoming infected with it .
The single safest way to safeguard the health of the incarcerated , public health experts agree , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as possible and drastically reduce density in correctional facilities .
Kernan has called on state leaders to look at all possible options to reduce the number of people in prisons .
“ While this may be well intentioned , it ’ s absurd to rely on eavesdropping on prisoners ’ phone calls to identify those who may have Covid-19 , ” said Fathi .
“ If prisons and jails want sick prisoners to self-identify , they should stop charging them for medical care , and eliminate the many other barriers and disincentives to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ To be clear , the way we can actually protect incarcerated folks from COVID-19 is to decarcerate the prisons and jails by , for example , releasing medically vulnerable , releasing folks accused of committing low-level offenses , releasing folks nearing the end of their sentence , ” said Agarwal .
“ This is something that we have been sounding the alarm about for weeks — a criminal sentence is not a death sentence .
”

Jail and prison officials in at least three states are using software to scan inmate calls for mentions of the coronavirus, a move advocacy groups believe paves the way for abuse while raising stark questions about carceral health care.
The monitoring software was created by LEO Technologies, a Los Angeles company backed primarily by scandal-plagued Republican fundraiser Elliott Broidy. Known as Verus, it was first deployed several years ago to forestall suicide attempts, mine calls for investigative tips, and for a range of other purposes. In recent weeks, it has been marketed as a system “that can mitigate the effects of the COVID-19 pandemic across our nation’s jail and prison facilities” by alerting prison authorities to sickness-related conversations between inmates and the outside world.
Document: LEO Technology
“It automatically downloads, analyzes, and transcribes all recorded inmate calls, proactively flagging them for review,” explains a Verus product brochure, which also claims this “near real-time intelligence” can be used to identify sick inmates, help allocate personnel in understaffed prisons, and even prevent “COVID-19 related murder.” The brochure touts Verus’s “advanced semantics” and “proactive analysis” and provides what it says are real-world examples of Verus already at work in undisclosed prison facilities. One shows a conversation flagged for the mention of a “disease in here,” while other inmate conversations are depicted as captured for merely mentioning a “cough” or “sneezing.” “It really is a tool for providing medical surveillance,” LEO Technologies CEO Scott Kernan said. In one example listed on the brochure, however, the software flags an exchange based exclusively on what a call recipient said, not the incarcerated person — suggesting that the system might serve to monitor public perceptions of prison management and not just the health of incarcerated people.
Coronavirus monitoring trials have begun at prisons in Georgia, in jails in at least seven Alabama counties, and at one or more facilities in or near San Bernardino, California, Kernan said, adding that there may be further deployments he could not immediately detail.
While monitoring prisoner calls for Covid-19 keywords could in theory be used to get help to sick inmates, it could also be just as easily wielded to suppress news of their sickness or to retaliate against those raising alarms about prison conditions. “This strikes me as nothing more than opportunistic branding of a problematic technology,” Shilpi Agarwal, a senior attorney with the American Civil Liberties Union of Northern California, told The Intercept. “Obviously, people talking about COVID-19 on the phone does not necessarily mean they are infected with COVID-19. The whole world is talking about the virus right now.” Agarwal added that “it’s not at all clear that any of the monitoring and analysis would be accurate,” as “we know voice recognition technology is deeply biased. Moreover, we also know that this kind of recording technology has been misused in the past to financially exploit inmates and to spy on their conversations with attorneys.”
Advocates for incarcerated people said they feared the technology would be used against those discussing the virus with people outside.
“If somebody uses the word ‘coughing,’ will their entire dorm be put under lockdown?”
“We’ve been using words that would trigger the keywords that were advertised on that document,” said Sarah Hamid, an organizer with the Carceral Tech Resistance Network, whose volunteers work closely with incarcerated people. “And so we became concerned because we don’t know what the ramifications are of using those words. Like, if somebody uses the word ‘coughing,’ will their entire dorm be put under lockdown or something like that?”
“We don’t know what the retaliation is going to be for using those words on the phone so we’ve been having to scramble to figure out, do we need to use code words? Somebody suggested using a different language but we found out the software works in Spanish too.” Kernan confirmed that the program works on Spanish. “Even Spanglish,” he said.
How It Works — and Who Pays For It
According to LEO Technologies’ website, the Verus system operates in at least 26 facilities in 11 states, including uses not specific to the coronavirus. In an interview with The Intercept, Kernan said that prisons use Verus by telling their phone service provider to share call data with LEO Technologies; LEO then routes this data through Amazon’s cloud computing division, Amazon Web Services, to obtain call transcripts, which are then shared back to LEO for keyword analysis by its staff. The LEO Technologies website notes the company is part of the “AWS partner network,” an Amazon initiative that “helps companies build, market, and sell their AWS offerings by providing valuable business, technical, and marketing support,” per an Amazon web page. Amazon did not respond to a request for comment. Kernan, a former California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation secretary, also sits on the board of the GEO Group, one of the two largest private prison corporations and the largest operator of immigration detention facilities in the country.
LEO Technologies is funded by Elliott Broidy, a Trump insider and former national deputy finance chair of the Republican National Committee whose office was raided in 2018 as part of a Justice Department investigation into money laundering and foreign influence peddling. The Intercept previously reported that another Broidy company made plans to peddle surveillance software to oppressive government customers worldwide. Broidy resigned from the RNC after reports of his $1.6 million settlement and nondisclosure agreement with a former Playboy model, negotiated by former Trump attorney Michael Cohen, and related allegations of sexual misconduct. In 2009, Broidy pleaded guilty to a felony bribery charge in the New York State Supreme Court involving payments to staffers in the state comptroller’s office. Kernan said Broidy is not involved with LEO Technologies’ operations. “He’s truly just a financial backer for the company,” he told The Intercept. Broidy Capital, Broidy’s investment firm, did not respond to a request for comment.
Read Our Complete Coverage The Coronavirus Crisis
Like with so many prison communications tools, the marketing of Verus tilts toward the benevolent, positioning the software as a way to keep inmates and prison staff safe. The nation’s leading providers of inmate calling systems, Securus Technologies and Global Tel Link, have long touted their phone systems as perfect tools for this. They record nearly every phone call made by inmates — which they insist are stored securely — and provide tools for analysis. The main selling point for Verus, it seems, is that it can accomplish this very quickly. But that may also be cause for additional concern.
While inmates — and by extension, their loved ones — generally lose their right to private communications while incarcerated, that is not absolute: Inmates retain the right to privileged communications with their attorneys. Attorney phone numbers are supposed to be noted within call monitoring systems so that they are not recorded, but there is ample evidence that is not always the case.
Indeed, a purloined trove of calls recorded and stored by Securus demonstrates that both promises — of security and privacy in privileged communications — aren’t necessarily to be trusted. In 2015, The Intercept received more than 70 million hacked records of phone calls, placed by prisoners to at least 37 states, along with links to those recordings. Within the cache, we found at least 14,000 recordings of calls to attorneys, a strong indication that privileged communications were also recorded.
Because the Verus system works with a prison facility’s current phone system, the possibility that privileged communications will also be transcribed is troubling. Moreover, the use of Verus adds in at least two more layers of access to inmate calls — by LEO Technologies and by Amazon — in turn increasing access to potentially private communications. According to Kernan, Verus has to date transcribed 84,068,940 minutes of calls: 159 years of transcribed speech.
“The history of this industry does not inspire confidence.”
“The history of this industry does not inspire confidence in terms of their ability to appropriately handle and protect confidential information,” said David Fathi, director of the ACLU’s National Prison Project. “And any time you add an additional player into the mix, or an additional step into the process, that can only increase the risk of a privacy breach.”
There are also questions about who exactly will pay for this additional monitoring. Securus and GTL are notorious for the high cost of their services, a burden borne almost exclusively by inmate families, the very people least able to afford it. Kernan said that Verus costs 6-8 cents per minute, and that facilities pay for it in a variety of ways. Some are getting Covid-19-related grant funding, he said, while others are paying for it via the phone system. In other words, there’s every reason to think that inmate families may end up footing the bill.
Shifting Responsibility to Individual Prisons
And as with any AI-powered surveillance tool, there are crucial questions about Verus’s accuracy, fairness, and accountability. Kernan said the tool’s accuracy isn’t subject to any outside audit or evaluation, adding that he wouldn’t be opposed to that, nor is there any hard and fast rule about who handles inmate call data or for how long. Asked about the potential for abuse, Kernan said that how Verus is ultimately used is the business of each prison. “Our company points [prisons] to a point in the call where a word or phrase was said that they have concerns about,” he said. “What they do with that information is purely out of our control.” Kernan told The Intercept he was not aware of any instances of Verus call data being used to retaliate against inmates monitored by the service.
“What they do with that information is purely out of our control.”
Advocates warn that because the software isn’t audited, it is likely to be “rife with errors,” as Hamid, the Carceral Tech Resistance Network organizer, put it. Hamid said incarcerated people have no way to question the validity of the software’s findings or even know it exists or how it works. “There is no capacity for meaningful consent in a carceral condition,” she said. “And there’s a lot of experimentation with these technologies.”
Hamid also warned that while Verus is being marketed to respond to a temporary health crisis, it is indicative of a more enduring shift in the management of prison surveillance technology in which individual facilities have more leeway in how they use new tools.
“There just seems to be this move to create crisis management systems that are small enough that they’re able to package them within an institution, like early-warning systems and things like that,” said Hamid. “If your phone company is the one that’s doing your early-warning risk assessment for you, then that’s not actionable knowledge like when you in that facility are doing that. … And that kind of fragments what the data protocols are, and it’s going to be by institution, and many of these institutions are going to be private institutions, and they’re not going to care about anything.”
“This is a new trend, and we’re seeing the pivot through Covid.”
This devolution in control of prison tech is all the more alarming given how little accountability there is for the companies that make such systems. LEO Technologies’ own marketing document notes that it does not “necessarily have liability or ‘duty to act’” based on what is in the transcripts it provides. Instead, its software “Verus puts this critical capability into the hands of your facility’s personnel, resulting in swift responses to crises and immediately actionable intelligence.”
It’s not immediately clear how monitoring conversations about Covid-19 can prevent incarcerated people from becoming infected with it. The single safest way to safeguard the health of the incarcerated, public health experts agree, is to release as many of them as possible and drastically reduce density in correctional facilities. Kernan has called on state leaders to look at all possible options to reduce the number of people in prisons.
“While this may be well intentioned, it’s absurd to rely on eavesdropping on prisoners’ phone calls to identify those who may have Covid-19,” said Fathi. “If prisons and jails want sick prisoners to self-identify, they should stop charging them for medical care, and eliminate the many other barriers and disincentives to seeking care that currently exist.”
“To be clear, the way we can actually protect incarcerated folks from COVID-19 is to decarcerate the prisons and jails by, for example, releasing medically vulnerable, releasing folks accused of committing low-level offenses, releasing folks nearing the end of their sentence,” said Agarwal. “This is something that we have been sounding the alarm about for weeks — a criminal sentence is not a death sentence.”
Correction: April 24, 2020
A prior version of this story incorrectly referred to all Verus trials as occurring in prison systems. Some, including in Alabama, are in county jails.


theintercept--2020-04-21--Inside Rikers: An Account of the Virus-Stricken Jail From a Man Who Managed to Get Out

Gov .
Andrew Cuomo ordered New Yorkers to stay home and maintain 6 feet of distance from one another , corrections officers handcuffed 33-year-old Jose Diaz to another man by his wrist and ankle and put them on a bus headed to Rikers Island , where the coronavirus had already infected more than three dozen detainees and jail employees .
The pandemic has hit Rikers harder than the rest of New York City .
At least 91 inmates for every 1,000 have tested positive for Covid-19 , compared with 16 residents per 1,000 citywide .
The top physician at the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ public health disaster unfolding before our eyes ” and urged the release of “ as many vulnerable people as possible.
” As another Rikers doctor put it , “ The only meaningful intervention here would be to reduce the jail population.
” Public officials have responded tepidly .
On March 27 , Cuomo ordered the release of 1,100 people detained on parole violations statewide .
As of mid-April , parole warrants had been lifted for 760 people , including 275 detained at Rikers , according to a spokesperson for the state Department @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not everyone covered by the order has actually been released .
Ultimately , the spokesperson said , “ it is the responsibility of the local jail to release the individual.
” The office of New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio says it is prioritizing the release of inmates who are over the age of 50 or have health conditions that make them vulnerable to Covid-19 .
The city has pointed to a 1,536-person decrease in the jail population since March 16 , although that includes individuals who completed their sentences or were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ nowhere near what is required to make a significant health impact .
Of the more than 4,000 people currently detained at Rikers , at least 365 have now tested positive for the virus , as have 783 Department of Correction staff and 130 medical workers .
Two people have died of Covid-19 while in custody .
Thousands of people awaiting trial or held on low-level parole violations remain at severe risk of contracting the deadly illness .
The experience of Diaz , who was sent to the virus-ravaged jail after being arrested on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is emblematic of the situation of many of the men and women incarcerated at Rikers over the course of the crisis .
The only thing that distinguishes Diaz ’ s experience is that he got out .
“ I was never on any list to be released , ” Diaz said over the phone from an apartment he shares with roommates in the Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn .
“ I ’ m a Category 1 parole offender , meaning I ’ m the last on the list to be released , if ever.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ politicians ’ Covid-19 release lists was a manslaughter conviction from when he was a teenage member of the Latin Kings gang .
According to DOCCS , an individual ’ s original offense should not be considered in the review process for the governor ’ s release program .
But defense attorneys say the process is opaque , and many eligible individuals have only been released after intense outside pressure .
Diaz served more than 11 years in prison for his crime .
At Wallkill Correctional Facility in upstate New York , he started @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s prison education program .
“ I eventually realized that education was something I could pour my soul into , ” he said .
He left prison , graduated , and began working for the NYU program while he completed his master ’ s degree in social and cultural analysis .
Around 55 percent of people released from state prisons are incarcerated again within five years , in part thanks to the strict conditions people like Diaz must agree to in order to be granted parole .
The terms often include curfews , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ any police contact — and small mistakes can have dramatic consequences .
Diaz was 3 1/2 years out of prison and months away from finishing his master ’ s degree when he was pulled over .
“ I was visiting family , driving home at 2:30 in the morning — it was in Osceola County in Florida , really racist , really not good for people of color to be driving late at night , ” Diaz said .
“ A cop alleged I was speeding and pulled me over .
I had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ before I left , so that ’ s what he arrested me for , but he never gave me a field sobriety test.
” While the DUI charge remains pending , being out after 9 p.m. counted as a parole violation .
He would be going back to jail .
“ I was crushed .
I just couldn ’ t believe it , ” Diaz said .
“ I was back there .
I forgot how it felt.
” The timing couldn ’ t be worse , though Covid-19 was the last thing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ March .
Like many New York residents , he didn ’ t really think the virus would alter everyday life in the city .
Newly equipped with what he ’ d learned in academia , Diaz observed his situation with critical race theory swimming in his head .
When corrections officers were rude to him , he thought , “ Well , that ’ s you internalizing institutional racism in order to deal with working in this institution .
But what I ’ m feeling is like , wow , this dude really @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shit .
Wow , look at my hair .
I can ’ t shave — I look like a fucking monster .
The basic things that are denied to you allow you to become that negative thing.
” As the coronavirus spread through New York City , Diaz was transferred repeatedly — before Rikers , he was held at the Manhattan Detention Complex and the floating jail in the Bronx known as the Boat .
Information about the growing crisis blared from a TV shared by dozens of people at the Boat , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ But it wasn ’ t until visiting hours were canceled on March 18 that the pandemic began to feel real .
Social workers stopped visiting , which was a big deal .
With limited phone time , detainees often struggle to contact the public defenders who represent them , and social workers serve as a crucial resource for getting information about their cases .
Flyers went up around the facility advising inmates to wash their hands and maintain social distance .
The message was clear : It was on them to avoid illness @ @ @ @ @ @ @ assigned cleaning tasks to do a thorough job , yet they did not provide new disinfectants or allow for sanitation between scheduled cleanings .
The officers began wearing masks , Diaz said , but inmates only got them if they were sick .
And Diaz did fall ill. “ What I experienced during my last time doing time is you just get sick , ” he said .
Diaz developed a sore throat and put his name on a list for medical care .
Typically , an officer would come to the dorm @ @ @ @ @ @ @ call !
” but no one showed up .
When Diaz asked a corrections officer for help , he learned that sick call had been canceled due to the virus .
The officer promised to follow up with him but never did .
Two days later , Diaz ’ s ears began to ache , and his throat hurt so badly that he couldn ’ t speak .
Anxiety crept in .
Diaz is a light smoker and was asthmatic as a child .
He wondered what would happen if he got worse @ @ @ @ @ @ @ officer , and Diaz was taken in .
Medical staff diagnosed him with laryngitis .
He wasn ’ t tested for Covid-19 .
Peter Thorne , deputy commissioner of public information for the Correction Department , told The Intercept that the sick call process had been temporarily modified to improve social distancing and that if any detainee complained about Covid-19 symptoms , an officer would notify the clinic .
In Diaz ’ s case , it hadn ’ t been so simple .
There is now a dedicated phone number posted in housing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ medical staff , according to Thorne — a less-than-ideal solution when limited phone time has already become inmates ’ only means of accessing family or legal support .
Diaz ’ s court hearing went ahead on March 19 , but it was over video .
He met his lawyer for the first time moments before the hearing began .
“ The proceeding is the speed of an auction , ” he said .
Diaz had collected letters of support from professors and his employer , which he ’ d normally be able to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ judge .
But with no clear way to pass the documents along electronically , the hearing continued without evidence of his academic career or network of support .
The judge noted that normally they would consider placing Diaz in a 97-day alcohol treatment program at a facility called Willard , but because of coronavirus measures , that wasn ’ t an option .
Instead , he offered Diaz a year of incarceration .
Diaz declined .
His next hearing was scheduled for April 23 .
In the meantime , he would be moved @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Each Other When Diaz arrived at the Otis Bantum Correctional Center on Rikers Island on March 23 , he and another detainee were taken to a dormitory for people with parole violations .
A pair of inmates met them at the entrance , speaking to Diaz in Spanish .
“ ‘ We already took one new person , and you ’ re not coming in , ” he said they told him .
“ ‘ And if you do come in , whatever happens to you — it ’ s not on us.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ kind of reaction where it came to gang affiliations .
But this time , the men were threatening violence to protect themselves against a virus .
“ A security threat is the only thing that would keep us out .
I was like , ‘ I got you.
’ I tell the CO , ‘ I can ’ t go in there because it doesn ’ t look good — take me to the box if you want , ’ ” a reference to solitary confinement .
The annoyed officer escorted them to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was clear why the inmates had taken matters into their own hands .
Despite the growing number of Covid-19 cases on Rikers , the precautions did not appear much different from those on the Boat .
The Correction Department told The Intercept that common spaces are cleaned once each day , shower areas three times daily , and phones every two hours , and that inmates have access to sanitation solution when they ’ re outside their cells .
Diaz , however , didn ’ t notice regular sanitation of the phone or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have access to sanitation solution .
He said people used socks to protect themselves when making calls from the phone bank .
The crowded quarters made social distancing impossible and the spread of contagion inevitable .
“ It ’ s jail — it ’ s designed to stack people on top of each other , ” Diaz said .
With beds 3 feet apart , “ I had more space in between me and my partner in a king size bed.
” The Correction Department ’ s solution , according to a posted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ feet .
The department only advised 3 to 6 feet of distance , despite the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention advising 6 .
The agency spokesperson told The Intercept that city jails are now at 50 percent capacity , and that staff is attempting to place an empty bed in between people in custody .
The dormitories on the floor below Diaz were quarantined within a week — someone had gotten sick , and more would follow .
The barbershop closed , the only place where inmates could use nail clippers , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ limited .
But measures meant to create social distancing seemed to be inconsistent .
Diaz said he continued to run into people from quarantined parts of the building roaming the hallways without masks .
The tension translated into verbal abuse from corrections officers .
“ If they believed you ’ re dirty in the first place , now coronavirus allowed them to act on that , ” Diaz said .
Fights broke out more frequently between people in the dorm , especially over who got to use the phone .
“ Officers got @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Diaz recalled .
“ Alarm after alarm after alarm.
” To make matters worse , “ I got sick again , ” he said .
This time , it was respiratory issues — he was coughing and congested and could no longer smell anything .
“ I was never tested , and I was too scared to get tested .
I ’ m hearing , ‘ You might be released , ’ and I didn ’ t want to risk that.
” His hopes for release did not come from his lawyer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Diaz ’ s court date seemed increasingly unlikely .
Nor did he believe the assurances of Cuomo or de Blasio when he saw no evidence on the inside that vulnerable people were being released .
Instead , his dim hopes came from demands that his friends and colleagues at NYU were making on his behalf .
It was clear to him that public officials would need a hard push to keep their promises .
The men in Diaz ’ s dorm were fed up by the beginning of April .
“ They weren @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with , and we were tired of taking the chance of being exposed during mealtime .
We were like , ‘ We ’ re not going to chow — fuck that.
’ ” They refused to go to lunch and delivered a long list of complaints to a senior officer .
“ We don ’ t have adequate cleaning supplies .
Can you find out about legal ?
Why aren ’ t you enforcing quarantine ?
We don ’ t have access to toenail clippers — and we need these things .
They @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t do nothing about that.
’ ” The hunger strike was short-lived .
“ Guys lost resolve , ” Diaz said .
“ These are low-level violators , so the stakes are a little different .
They ’ re still hoping that the system is going to be benevolent.
” Diaz credits organizing on the outside for getting him released .
“ I ’ ve always been a critic of advocacy work until I actually saw it work .
To see a group of 200 people get together and get my release @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , that ’ s something.
” NYU President Andrew Hamilton wrote Diaz a letter of support , faculty members put pressure on decision-makers in the mayor ’ s office , and activists made repeated calls to government officials .
Neither the mayor ’ s office nor the Correction Department provided information on what was behind the decision .
Officers finally discharged Diaz at 2:30 a.m. on April 4 .
According to the Mayor ’ s Office of Criminal Justice , individuals are screened for Covid-19 prior to release .
But Diaz said he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and no advice about how to navigate the changed world he entered .
“ I was transferred in a van shoulder-to-shoulder with two other men .
Even when they were releasing us , they still stacked us on top of each other.
” The tally of Covid-19 cases released by the Correction Department and Correctional Health Services significantly underplays the number of inmates who have contracted the virus .
It only includes individuals who are currently incarcerated , leaving out those who were released or transferred after testing positive .
Despite pressure @ @ @ @ @ @ @ refused to release cumulative data .
The other two men discharged with Diaz were being released on bail .
“ That ’ s part of the work that people are doing now — they ’ re creating bail funds , ” Diaz said .
“ The only way we know for a fact you can get people out is if you pay for their release.
” Yet hours before Diaz left Rikers , the state legislature passed a budget that included major roll-backs of recent bail reforms , which had eliminated cash bail @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Cuomo ’ s new bail rules could increase the number of people incarcerated by tens of thousands every year .
In New York City jails , 305 people are still being held solely for parole violations , and another 650 are jailed for a parole violation in combination with new charges .
The latter are not covered by Cuomo ’ s release scheme .
In more than half those cases , the charges are low-level offenses that on their own , would not require pre-trial detention or would allow for release on bail @ @ @ @ @ @ @ York has the power to order people serving city sentences of a year or less to do so at home .
At least 309 people have been released under this authority , while 137 remain in jail .
Judges decide the fate of the majority of Rikers prisoners , who are awaiting trial .
Elected district attorneys hold significant influence over their decisions and can recommend detainees for release .
However , it has largely fallen on defense attorneys to plead for individuals ’ release petition by petition .
Diaz realizes that his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ I ’ m in contact with a guy that was arrested for the same thing as me .
I speak to his mother daily .
He ’ s just sitting there , and he ’ s exposed to corona — in danger of contracting it .
That just doesn ’ t make sense , ” Diaz said .
The day that Diaz left , Raymond Rivera became the first person to die of Covid-19 on Rikers Island .
He had been accused of violating the terms of his parole .
He @ @ @ @ @ @ @ got tangled in the jail system ’ s bureaucracy and caught Covid-19 instead .
Since his warrant was finally lifted hours before he died , he is not included in the Correction Department ’ s official coronavirus death toll .
Michael Tyson , who was transferred to Rikers the same day as Diaz , also for a parole violation , became the second Covid-19 death on the island two days after Diaz ’ s release .
He was 53 years old and had diabetes , a previous heart surgery , and high blood @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that due to the jail and court systems ’ deepened dysfunction during the crisis , his lawyers were not even aware he was at Rikers until he was hospitalized .
“ The death of anyone in our custody is deeply upsetting , ” B. Colby Hamilton , the public affairs chief of the Mayor ’ s Office of Criminal Justice , told The Intercept .
“ We have worked since the beginning with our partners across the justice system to release as many people as we safely could.
” A spokesperson for DOCCS @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Rivera ’ s case , and that corrective action will be taken if necessary .
In the view of the department , however , Tyson had a high risk of reoffending and wasn ’ t eligible for release under the governor ’ s directive .
For Diaz , the responses ring hollow .
“ They had technical violations — end up getting Covid .
Had de Blasio followed up with releasing guys like he said he would , or Cuomo , they wouldn ’ t be dead , ” Diaz said .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ applause for not doing a job complete .
Release half the population and make sure the people who are there get adequate access to resources .
”

The day after Gov. Andrew Cuomo ordered New Yorkers to stay home and maintain 6 feet of distance from one another, corrections officers handcuffed 33-year-old Jose Diaz to another man by his wrist and ankle and put them on a bus headed to Rikers Island, where the coronavirus had already infected more than three dozen detainees and jail employees.
The pandemic has hit Rikers harder than the rest of New York City. At least 91 inmates for every 1,000 have tested positive for Covid-19, compared with 16 residents per 1,000 citywide. The top physician at the jail complex has called the situation a “public health disaster unfolding before our eyes” and urged the release of “as many vulnerable people as possible.” As another Rikers doctor put it, “The only meaningful intervention here would be to reduce the jail population.”
Public officials have responded tepidly. On March 27, Cuomo ordered the release of 1,100 people detained on parole violations statewide. As of mid-April, parole warrants had been lifted for 760 people, including 275 detained at Rikers, according to a spokesperson for the state Department of Corrections and Community Supervision, but not everyone covered by the order has actually been released. Ultimately, the spokesperson said, “it is the responsibility of the local jail to release the individual.”
The office of New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio says it is prioritizing the release of inmates who are over the age of 50 or have health conditions that make them vulnerable to Covid-19. The city has pointed to a 1,536-person decrease in the jail population since March 16, although that includes individuals who completed their sentences or were released on bail. The reductions are nowhere near what is required to make a significant health impact. Of the more than 4,000 people currently detained at Rikers, at least 365 have now tested positive for the virus, as have 783 Department of Correction staff and 130 medical workers. Two people have died of Covid-19 while in custody.
Thousands of people awaiting trial or held on low-level parole violations remain at severe risk of contracting the deadly illness. The experience of Diaz, who was sent to the virus-ravaged jail after being arrested on March 2 for a parole violation, is emblematic of the situation of many of the men and women incarcerated at Rikers over the course of the crisis. The only thing that distinguishes Diaz’s experience is that he got out.
“I Was Back There”
“I was never on any list to be released,” Diaz said over the phone from an apartment he shares with roommates in the Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn. “I’m a Category 1 parole offender, meaning I’m the last on the list to be released, if ever.”
What Diaz believes kept him off politicians’ Covid-19 release lists was a manslaughter conviction from when he was a teenage member of the Latin Kings gang. According to DOCCS, an individual’s original offense should not be considered in the review process for the governor’s release program. But defense attorneys say the process is opaque, and many eligible individuals have only been released after intense outside pressure.
Diaz served more than 11 years in prison for his crime. At Wallkill Correctional Facility in upstate New York, he started taking classes through New York University’s prison education program. “I eventually realized that education was something I could pour my soul into,” he said. He left prison, graduated, and began working for the NYU program while he completed his master’s degree in social and cultural analysis.
Around 55 percent of people released from state prisons are incarcerated again within five years, in part thanks to the strict conditions people like Diaz must agree to in order to be granted parole. The terms often include curfews, restrictions on out-of-state travel, and avoiding any police contact — and small mistakes can have dramatic consequences.
Diaz was 3 1/2 years out of prison and months away from finishing his master’s degree when he was pulled over. “I was visiting family, driving home at 2:30 in the morning — it was in Osceola County in Florida, really racist, really not good for people of color to be driving late at night,” Diaz said. “A cop alleged I was speeding and pulled me over. I had had a few drinks with my family before I left, so that’s what he arrested me for, but he never gave me a field sobriety test.” While the DUI charge remains pending, being out after 9 p.m. counted as a parole violation. He would be going back to jail.
“I was crushed. I just couldn’t believe it,” Diaz said. “I was back there. I forgot how it felt.” The timing couldn’t be worse, though Covid-19 was the last thing on Diaz’s mind in early March. Like many New York residents, he didn’t really think the virus would alter everyday life in the city.
Newly equipped with what he’d learned in academia, Diaz observed his situation with critical race theory swimming in his head. When corrections officers were rude to him, he thought, “Well, that’s you internalizing institutional racism in order to deal with working in this institution. But what I’m feeling is like, wow, this dude really thinks I’m a piece a shit. Wow, look at my hair. I can’t shave — I look like a fucking monster. The basic things that are denied to you allow you to become that negative thing.”
“You Just Get Sick”
As the coronavirus spread through New York City, Diaz was transferred repeatedly — before Rikers, he was held at the Manhattan Detention Complex and the floating jail in the Bronx known as the Boat. Information about the growing crisis blared from a TV shared by dozens of people at the Boat, where Diaz landed on March 12. But it wasn’t until visiting hours were canceled on March 18 that the pandemic began to feel real. Social workers stopped visiting, which was a big deal. With limited phone time, detainees often struggle to contact the public defenders who represent them, and social workers serve as a crucial resource for getting information about their cases.
Flyers went up around the facility advising inmates to wash their hands and maintain social distance. The message was clear: It was on them to avoid illness. Corrections officers encouraged inmates who were assigned cleaning tasks to do a thorough job, yet they did not provide new disinfectants or allow for sanitation between scheduled cleanings. The officers began wearing masks, Diaz said, but inmates only got them if they were sick.
The message was clear: It was on them to avoid illness.
And Diaz did fall ill. “What I experienced during my last time doing time is you just get sick,” he said. Diaz developed a sore throat and put his name on a list for medical care. Typically, an officer would come to the dorm once a day and yell “Sick call!” but no one showed up. When Diaz asked a corrections officer for help, he learned that sick call had been canceled due to the virus. The officer promised to follow up with him but never did.
Two days later, Diaz’s ears began to ache, and his throat hurt so badly that he couldn’t speak. Anxiety crept in. Diaz is a light smoker and was asthmatic as a child. He wondered what would happen if he got worse. Finally, a friend alerted an officer, and Diaz was taken in. Medical staff diagnosed him with laryngitis. He wasn’t tested for Covid-19.
Peter Thorne, deputy commissioner of public information for the Correction Department, told The Intercept that the sick call process had been temporarily modified to improve social distancing and that if any detainee complained about Covid-19 symptoms, an officer would notify the clinic. In Diaz’s case, it hadn’t been so simple. There is now a dedicated phone number posted in housing areas that can be used to contact medical staff, according to Thorne — a less-than-ideal solution when limited phone time has already become inmates’ only means of accessing family or legal support.
Diaz’s court hearing went ahead on March 19, but it was over video. He met his lawyer for the first time moments before the hearing began. “The proceeding is the speed of an auction,” he said. Diaz had collected letters of support from professors and his employer, which he’d normally be able to hand directly to his lawyer or the judge. But with no clear way to pass the documents along electronically, the hearing continued without evidence of his academic career or network of support.
The judge noted that normally they would consider placing Diaz in a 97-day alcohol treatment program at a facility called Willard, but because of coronavirus measures, that wasn’t an option. Instead, he offered Diaz a year of incarceration. Diaz declined. His next hearing was scheduled for April 23. In the meantime, he would be moved to Rikers.
A housing unit at the Rikers Island Correctional Facility on Sept. 25, 2019. Photo: Todd Heisler/The New York Times via Redux
Stacked on Top of Each Other
When Diaz arrived at the Otis Bantum Correctional Center on Rikers Island on March 23, he and another detainee were taken to a dormitory for people with parole violations. A pair of inmates met them at the entrance, speaking to Diaz in Spanish. “‘We already took one new person, and you’re not coming in,” he said they told him. “‘And if you do come in, whatever happens to you — it’s not on us.’”
Diaz was used to this kind of reaction where it came to gang affiliations. But this time, the men were threatening violence to protect themselves against a virus. “A security threat is the only thing that would keep us out. I was like, ‘I got you.’ I tell the CO, ‘I can’t go in there because it doesn’t look good — take me to the box if you want,’” a reference to solitary confinement. The annoyed officer escorted them to another dorm.
To Diaz, it was clear why the inmates had taken matters into their own hands. Despite the growing number of Covid-19 cases on Rikers, the precautions did not appear much different from those on the Boat. The Correction Department told The Intercept that common spaces are cleaned once each day, shower areas three times daily, and phones every two hours, and that inmates have access to sanitation solution when they’re outside their cells. Diaz, however, didn’t notice regular sanitation of the phone or food preparation areas, nor did he have access to sanitation solution. He said people used socks to protect themselves when making calls from the phone bank.
The crowded quarters made social distancing impossible and the spread of contagion inevitable. “It’s jail — it’s designed to stack people on top of each other,” Diaz said. With beds 3 feet apart, “I had more space in between me and my partner in a king size bed.” The Correction Department’s solution, according to a posted flyer, was to sleep head to feet. The department only advised 3 to 6 feet of distance, despite the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention advising 6. The agency spokesperson told The Intercept that city jails are now at 50 percent capacity, and that staff is attempting to place an empty bed in between people in custody.
The dormitories on the floor below Diaz were quarantined within a week — someone had gotten sick, and more would follow. The barbershop closed, the only place where inmates could use nail clippers, and access to the law library was limited. But measures meant to create social distancing seemed to be inconsistent. Diaz said he continued to run into people from quarantined parts of the building roaming the hallways without masks.
Read Our Complete Coverage The Coronavirus Crisis
The tension translated into verbal abuse from corrections officers. “If they believed you’re dirty in the first place, now coronavirus allowed them to act on that,” Diaz said. Fights broke out more frequently between people in the dorm, especially over who got to use the phone. “Officers got geared up, got their sticks,” Diaz recalled. “Alarm after alarm after alarm.”
To make matters worse, “I got sick again,” he said. This time, it was respiratory issues — he was coughing and congested and could no longer smell anything. “I was never tested, and I was too scared to get tested. I’m hearing, ‘You might be released,’ and I didn’t want to risk that.”
His hopes for release did not come from his lawyer. Hearings were being postponed, and Diaz’s court date seemed increasingly unlikely. Nor did he believe the assurances of Cuomo or de Blasio when he saw no evidence on the inside that vulnerable people were being released. Instead, his dim hopes came from demands that his friends and colleagues at NYU were making on his behalf. It was clear to him that public officials would need a hard push to keep their promises.
Exception to the Rule
The men in Diaz’s dorm were fed up by the beginning of April. “They weren’t giving us stuff to clean with, and we were tired of taking the chance of being exposed during mealtime. We were like, ‘We’re not going to chow — fuck that.’” They refused to go to lunch and delivered a long list of complaints to a senior officer. “We don’t have adequate cleaning supplies. Can you find out about legal? Why aren’t you enforcing quarantine? We don’t have access to toenail clippers — and we need these things. They’re like, ‘We can’t do nothing about that.’”
The hunger strike was short-lived. “Guys lost resolve,” Diaz said. “These are low-level violators, so the stakes are a little different. They’re still hoping that the system is going to be benevolent.”
Diaz credits organizing on the outside for getting him released. “I’ve always been a critic of advocacy work until I actually saw it work. To see a group of 200 people get together and get my release? I’m like, Jesus, that’s something.” NYU President Andrew Hamilton wrote Diaz a letter of support, faculty members put pressure on decision-makers in the mayor’s office, and activists made repeated calls to government officials. Neither the mayor’s office nor the Correction Department provided information on what was behind the decision.
Officers finally discharged Diaz at 2:30 a.m. on April 4. According to the Mayor’s Office of Criminal Justice, individuals are screened for Covid-19 prior to release. But Diaz said he had no health check before he left, and no advice about how to navigate the changed world he entered. “I was transferred in a van shoulder-to-shoulder with two other men. Even when they were releasing us, they still stacked us on top of each other.”
The official tally of Covid-19 cases significantly underplays the number of inmates who have contracted the virus.
The tally of Covid-19 cases released by the Correction Department and Correctional Health Services significantly underplays the number of inmates who have contracted the virus. It only includes individuals who are currently incarcerated, leaving out those who were released or transferred after testing positive. Despite pressure from Legal Aid, the agencies have refused to release cumulative data.
The other two men discharged with Diaz were being released on bail. “That’s part of the work that people are doing now — they’re creating bail funds,” Diaz said. “The only way we know for a fact you can get people out is if you pay for their release.” Yet hours before Diaz left Rikers, the state legislature passed a budget that included major roll-backs of recent bail reforms, which had eliminated cash bail for most misdemeanors and nonviolent felonies. Cuomo’s new bail rules could increase the number of people incarcerated by tens of thousands every year.
In New York City jails, 305 people are still being held solely for parole violations, and another 650 are jailed for a parole violation in combination with new charges. The latter are not covered by Cuomo’s release scheme. In more than half those cases, the charges are low-level offenses that on their own, would not require pre-trial detention or would allow for release on bail.
Meanwhile, the city of New York has the power to order people serving city sentences of a year or less to do so at home. At least 309 people have been released under this authority, while 137 remain in jail. Judges decide the fate of the majority of Rikers prisoners, who are awaiting trial. Elected district attorneys hold significant influence over their decisions and can recommend detainees for release. However, it has largely fallen on defense attorneys to plead for individuals’ release petition by petition.
Diaz realizes that his case is an exception to the rule. “I’m in contact with a guy that was arrested for the same thing as me. I speak to his mother daily. He’s just sitting there, and he’s exposed to corona — in danger of contracting it. That just doesn’t make sense,” Diaz said.
The day that Diaz left, Raymond Rivera became the first person to die of Covid-19 on Rikers Island. He had been accused of violating the terms of his parole. He was ordered released six weeks before but got tangled in the jail system’s bureaucracy and caught Covid-19 instead. Since his warrant was finally lifted hours before he died, he is not included in the Correction Department’s official coronavirus death toll.
Michael Tyson, who was transferred to Rikers the same day as Diaz, also for a parole violation, became the second Covid-19 death on the island two days after Diaz’s release. He was 53 years old and had diabetes, a previous heart surgery, and high blood pressure. The Legal Aid Society said that due to the jail and court systems’ deepened dysfunction during the crisis, his lawyers were not even aware he was at Rikers until he was hospitalized.
“The death of anyone in our custody is deeply upsetting,” B. Colby Hamilton, the public affairs chief of the Mayor’s Office of Criminal Justice, told The Intercept. “We have worked since the beginning with our partners across the justice system to release as many people as we safely could.”
A spokesperson for DOCCS told The Intercept that it is investigating Rivera’s case, and that corrective action will be taken if necessary. In the view of the department, however, Tyson had a high risk of reoffending and wasn’t eligible for release under the governor’s directive.
For Diaz, the responses ring hollow. “They had technical violations — end up getting Covid. Had de Blasio followed up with releasing guys like he said he would, or Cuomo, they wouldn’t be dead,” Diaz said. “They need to stop taking praise and applause for not doing a job complete. Release half the population and make sure the people who are there get adequate access to resources.”


theintercept--2020-04-22--An Anti-China Message Didn’t Work for Democrats in 2018 — and It Won’t Work for Biden Now

slamming Donald Trump ’ s “ casual racism and regular xenophobia , ” Joe Biden ’ s presidential campaign released an ad over the weekend accusing the president of having “ rolled over for the Chinese.
” Not only , the ad darkly alleges , has “ Trump praised the Chinese 15 times ; ” moreover , “ The travel ban he brags about ?
Trump let in 40,000 travelers from China into America after he signed it — not exactly airtight.
” Biden ’ s anti-China framing is not only morally reprehensible , it ’ s also bad politics @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s more , it doesn ’ t need to be this way : Biden could be winning over the voters he ’ s trying to get by pushing policies that provide actual answers for the problems people face amid the coronavirus crisis .
Let ’ s start briefly with why it ’ s morally wrong .
Biden ’ s anti-China message is coming at a time when Fox News is reporting as fact that conspiracy theory that the virus “ escaped from a lab in Wuhan ” ; anti-public health neo-tea partiers are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ China if you want communism !
” ; and racist attacks against Asian Americans are surging .
Just as bad , exacerbating tensions with China is folly .
Millions of lives around the globe depend on an unprecedented level of international solidarity and specifically robust U.S.-China cooperation to fight the novel coronavirus .
Picking a fight with Trump over who can mount the most aggressive opposition to “ the Chinese ” poses a massive public health risk .
Those dangers might even be understandable , in a callous realpolitik way , except Biden @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have the merit of being politically expedient .
In fact , another Democrat tried this tack in a national 2018 race and his efforts fell flat : The Democrat , now-former Indiana Sen. Joe Donnelly , won only nine of Indiana ’ s 92 counties — and lost the race to a Republican challenger by 6 percentage points , or 150,000 votes .
to outflank Trump with xenophobic nationalism immediately brought me back to 2018 , when I was doing political work in Indiana .
One of the quintet of Midwest states that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ then Trump , Indiana was primed for anti-Chinese suspicion and resentment .
The state had suffered under the combined effects of industrial firms repositioning their production centers to China and the agricultural calamity resulting from the late U.S.-China trade war .
Like Biden now , Donnelly aimed to exploit those feelings , branding his challenger Mike Braun , a businessman who ’ d had dealings with Chinese firms , “ China Mike.
” Though Donnelly lost the race , his losing strategy lives on , thanks in part to the One Country Project @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his fellow loser incumbent , North Dakota ’ s former Democratic Sen. Heidi Heitkamp .
Their group purportedly aims to help Democrats connect with the rural voters among whom they had both lost .
There ’ s a major strategic problem , however , with the Donnelly-Biden strategy : They ’ re going for the wrong Trump voters .
A 2017 Democracy Fund study , “ The Five Types of Trump Voters , ” found that , grouped by their highest priority issues , 20 percent of Trump voters are “ American Preservationists @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ a nativist and ethnocultural conception of American identity.
” These are the voters who could be motivated by scapegoating “ the Chinese ” — but they ’ re already spoken for .
As Ethan Paul wrote for the Quincy Institute for Responsible Statecraft , “ Biden is not adept enough to out-nationalist America ’ s foremost nationalist , and would only empower Trump to further inflame anti-Asian racism.
” races did not only offer warnings to Democrats , they also offered a way forward : If the Democrats want to peel off @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the manifestly unflippable “ American Preservationists ” and instead look to what Democracy Fund study called “ Anti-Elites.
” These are the 19 percent of Trump supporters who responded to his promises to “ drain the swamp ” and so forth .
Those are the only Trump supporters with bipartisan voting potential , as we learned from the way Donnelly , Heitkamp , and Missouri ’ s Sen. Claire McCaskill lost their incumbent races .
The same year , anti-elite economic populism , the approach favored by Ohio ’ s Sherrod Brown and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of whom won reelection , fared well in the Obama-Trump Midwest .
Poll after poll shows Medicare for All and a Green New Deal , two economic populist ideas par excellence , are very broadly popular .
Indeed Biden ’ s erstwhile rival , Sen. Bernie Sanders , the politician most closely associated with both , consistently outpolled Trump among independents by a greater margin than his competitors for the Democratic nomination .
Full-throated support for these policies requires Sanders ’ s willingness to make enemies of the powerful corporate interests that benefit @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and pharmaceutical companies , and the fossil fuel and corporate agriculture industries .
On the other hand , there is distressingly little to suggest that Biden will reverse his decadeslong record of friendly relations with the wealthy class and corporate lobbyists and start running in opposition to the elites .
Rather , over his long political career , Biden has repeatedly taken the course he embarks on now , staking out positions to the right of the Republicans — on issues from social security to criminal punishment .
Make no mistake , though @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this case of massively lethal criminal negligence , is absolutely capable of successfully deflecting responsibility by leaning on racist scapegoating .
Choosing a messaging strategy that reinforces Trump ’ s dominant frame puts Biden at a massive narrative disadvantage .
Meanwhile , masses of people can clearly see that , on a planetary level , we are all in this together ; for any of us to be safe , we have to all pool our resources to take on our common challenges .
Instead , we are faced with a national election @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .

Photo illustration: Soohee Cho/The Intercept, Getty Images
Just days after slamming Donald Trump’s “casual racism and regular xenophobia,” Joe Biden’s presidential campaign released an ad over the weekend accusing the president of having “rolled over for the Chinese.” Not only, the ad darkly alleges, has “Trump praised the Chinese 15 times;” moreover, “The travel ban he brags about? Trump let in 40,000 travelers from China into America after he signed it — not exactly airtight.”
Biden’s anti-China framing is not only morally reprehensible, it’s also bad politics and bad public policy.
Biden’s anti-China framing is not only morally reprehensible, it’s also bad politics and bad public policy. What’s more, it doesn’t need to be this way: Biden could be winning over the voters he’s trying to get by pushing policies that provide actual answers for the problems people face amid the coronavirus crisis.
Let’s start briefly with why it’s morally wrong. Biden’s anti-China message is coming at a time when Fox News is reporting as fact that conspiracy theory that the virus “escaped from a lab in Wuhan”; anti-public health neo-tea partiers are shouting at nurses, “Go to China if you want communism!”; and racist attacks against Asian Americans are surging.
Just as bad, exacerbating tensions with China is folly. Millions of lives around the globe depend on an unprecedented level of international solidarity and specifically robust U.S.-China cooperation to fight the novel coronavirus. Picking a fight with Trump over who can mount the most aggressive opposition to “the Chinese” poses a massive public health risk.
Those dangers might even be understandable, in a callous realpolitik way, except Biden’s strategy doesn’t even have the merit of being politically expedient. In fact, another Democrat tried this tack in a national 2018 race and his efforts fell flat: The Democrat, now-former Indiana Sen. Joe Donnelly, won only nine of Indiana’s 92 counties — and lost the race to a Republican challenger by 6 percentage points, or 150,000 votes.
Watching Biden try to outflank Trump with xenophobic nationalism immediately brought me back to 2018, when I was doing political work in Indiana. One of the quintet of Midwest states that had voted for both Barack Obama and then Trump, Indiana was primed for anti-Chinese suspicion and resentment. The state had suffered under the combined effects of industrial firms repositioning their production centers to China and the agricultural calamity resulting from the late U.S.-China trade war. Like Biden now, Donnelly aimed to exploit those feelings, branding his challenger Mike Braun, a businessman who’d had dealings with Chinese firms, “China Mike.”
Though Donnelly lost the race, his losing strategy lives on, thanks in part to the One Country Project, the dark-money group he co-founded with his fellow loser incumbent, North Dakota’s former Democratic Sen. Heidi Heitkamp. Their group purportedly aims to help Democrats connect with the rural voters among whom they had both lost.
There’s a major problem, however, with the Donnelly-Biden strategy: They’re going for the wrong Trump voters. A 2017 Democracy Fund study, “The Five Types of Trump Voters,” found that, grouped by their highest priority issues, 20 percent of Trump voters are “American Preservationists,” whose politics are dominated by “a nativist and ethnocultural conception of American identity.” These are the voters who could be motivated by scapegoating “the Chinese” — but they’re already spoken for.
As Ethan Paul wrote for the Quincy Institute for Responsible Statecraft, “Biden is not adept enough to out-nationalist America’s foremost nationalist, and would only empower Trump to further inflame anti-Asian racism.”
The 2018 congressional races did not only offer warnings to Democrats, they also offered a way forward: If the Democrats want to peel off any Trump voters, they should ignore the manifestly unflippable “American Preservationists” and instead look to what Democracy Fund study called “Anti-Elites.” These are the 19 percent of Trump supporters who responded to his promises to “drain the swamp” and so forth. Those are the only Trump supporters with bipartisan voting potential, as we learned from the way Donnelly, Heitkamp, and Missouri’s Sen. Claire McCaskill lost their incumbent races.
The 2018 congressional races did not only offer warnings to Democrats. They also offered a way forward.
The same year, anti-elite economic populism, the approach favored by Ohio’s Sherrod Brown and Wisconsin’s Tammy Baldwin, both of whom won reelection, fared well in the Obama-Trump Midwest. Poll after poll shows Medicare for All and a Green New Deal, two economic populist ideas par excellence, are very broadly popular. Indeed Biden’s erstwhile rival, Sen. Bernie Sanders, the politician most closely associated with both, consistently outpolled Trump among independents by a greater margin than his competitors for the Democratic nomination.
Full-throated support for these policies requires Sanders’s willingness to make enemies of the powerful corporate interests that benefit from the current system: health insurance and pharmaceutical companies, and the fossil fuel and corporate agriculture industries.
On the other hand, there is distressingly little to suggest that Biden will reverse his decadeslong record of friendly relations with the wealthy class and corporate lobbyists and start running in opposition to the elites. Rather, over his long political career, Biden has repeatedly taken the course he embarks on now, staking out positions to the right of the Republicans — on issues from social security to criminal punishment.
Make no mistake, though: The Trump government, guilty in this case of massively lethal criminal negligence, is absolutely capable of successfully deflecting responsibility by leaning on racist scapegoating. Choosing a messaging strategy that reinforces Trump’s dominant frame puts Biden at a massive narrative disadvantage.
Meanwhile, masses of people can clearly see that, on a planetary level, we are all in this together; for any of us to be safe, we have to all pool our resources to take on our common challenges. Instead, we are faced with a national election lacking a candidate vying for our vote.