Chapter One: Rikers Island ONE Rikers Island O ur 21-minute call was almost up , but by now we were used to it. Every time Moose buzzed, the line was tapped. At least the call was free. A dystopian haze had settled over New York City. Stoplights flicked from red to green to yellow, but there was no hum of cars, no symphony of horns at rush hour. Birds flew overhead, yet few planes soared through the open sky. The restaurants and theaters of Times Square were dark, but giant screens and billboards glowed like a scene out of a sci-fi thriller. It was 2020 and the COVID-19 pandemic had gripped the globe.
Life, as we knew it, stood still. Inside New York City''s jails, life was far more unsettling. As the pandemic crawled on, my phone number slipped from cinderblock cell to cell, traveling like wildfire through the city''s web of detention centers; daily dispatches were reported from the Manhattan Detention Complex, the Brooklyn Detention Complex, and the Vernon C. Bain Center, a looming barge floating off the coast of the South Bronx. Together, these jail facilities housed 2,500 beds. None was more dysfunctional, more problematic than Rikers Island, which at its peak in the 1990s warehoused over 21,000 people. Resting in the murky-green East River, this island houses not one but ten jails, eight of which are still active. Situated between the boroughs of Queens and the Bronx, Rikers--like all the city''s jails--is governed by the New York City Department of Correction.
Each day, this government agency transports about one tenth of Rikers'' population to courthouses residing in the boroughs. (The city annually spends $31 million on these trips alone.) Even though Rikers rests just 100 yards from LaGuardia Airport''s runways, this 413-acre island is completely isolated. Because of this, it''s also self-sustaining, with its own bus depot, fire station, chapel, K9 unit, bakery, multiple trailers, a garden surrounded by razor wire, and a 30,000-square-foot power plant. When the pandemic hit, jail programs shut down, visitors were barred from entering, mail delivery slowed, and basic services, like the jails'' barber shops, shuttered, leaving people''s hair and nails long and jagged. Some told me soap was scarce; social distancing, nearly impossible. Concrete cells were filled with fecal matter and urine, and some had inoperable sinks. Gnats circled rotting food on worn floors.
People said they weren''t given masks or hand sanitizer; Virex disinfectant was rarely distributed--one person said just every two weeks. Another reported that the George R. Vierno Center--one of Rikers'' men''s jails--was "the epicenter of the disease." It was like sitting on death row without a sentence. We were in the early stages of the pandemic, in May 2020, when Moose first called. Protests over the recent murders of Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd were crescendoing across the nation. Civil unrest shook the country, as the pandemic raged on. Citizens demanded we defund the police.
New York City mayor Bill de Blasio would soon declare a state of emergency and issue a citywide curfew for the "health and welfare" of New Yorkers. "This is a call from"--a man stated his name--"an incarcerated individual at the New York City Department of Correction," the automated announcement said. A polite baritone voice came through the line and introduced himself. I was surprised by his cheerful disposition, despite the grim circumstances. "Judges call me ''Jack.'' Friends call me ''Moose.''?"I "How do you spell it?" I asked, grabbing a pen. "M-O-U-S-S-E?" The voice let out a bellow of laughter, a Moose signature with which I became well acquainted.
"Not like the dessert!" I cracked a smile. "Moose. M-O-O-S-E." He guffawed again. When the pandemic first hit, Moose had been locked up on Rikers, the latest in his long string of stints in New York City''s jail system. Owing to the pandemic, New York City--and other jurisdictions around the country--released people with "nonviolent" charges.II New York City''s total jail population dropped from 5,458 to 3,824, its lowest number since the 1940s. Among the released was Moose.
He''d been roaming the Free World, strolling the streets of the Bronx--homebase when he''s not in the joint--where he rediscovered the rhythm of freedom. "It felt so good to be out in the sunshine," Moose recalled. "Every day I was out in the sun, with Purell on my trigger finger." Moose wasn''t long for the Free World. While on the move, he misplaced his parole officer''s phone number. He also got shot. "One bullet landed in my arm near my elbow," he said. "But I got an image to uphold in my neighborhood, so I laughed and drank beer.
" Less than three weeks later, the cops pinched him on 176th Street. He landed back in jail, the bullet still lodged in his arm. "Sorry about your arm," I said. "You get it bandaged?" "They haven''t taken me to see anyone yet. I''m still waiting for them to wrap it." He paused. "I''m hoping to get released soon. Maybe Monday.
" "Oh, wow, that soon." His tone shifted to serious. "I heard you''re writing a book about Rikers. How can I help?" Rikers Island has many names: "Torture Island," "The Gladiator School," and the "House of Dead Men." During hot spells, it''s "The Oven," since many cells lack air-conditioning. This island is one of the largest and most expensive jail complexes in the United States. Each jail on Rikers is defined by its own architecture, warden, staff, and people locked inside. There is one trait that most incarcerated people here share: most are untried.
Like the rest of America''s jails, Rikers holds people who have not been convicted of a crime; they have not been sentenced. Though Americans are supposed to be presumed innocent until found guilty, jails are designed to hold those who have not yet seen their day in court. They wait, month after month, sometimes year after year, for their alleged constitutional right to a speedy trial. While prisons house those who''ve been convicted and sentenced with long-term, even lifetime stays (the longest sentence ever received was 10,000 years, according to Guinness World Records ), jails remain, overwhelmingly, the institutions for those who can''t afford bail (a small percentage of the population is serving sentences under one year). The justice system forces them to serve as human collateral behind these walls. Though this is a crucial difference between a prison and a jail, the distinction is often not understood by those outside the criminal justice system. Some of America''s most epic films, greatest writers, most respectable newspapers, and most prudent editors use the terms jail and prison interchangeably. Even today, when conversations about justice reform are at one of their most potent points, many members of the media and the public don''t recognize the difference between a jail and a prison.
To be clear, jails and prisons are not fungible. Many get this wrong from the start, revealing a frightening lack in awareness of how America''s justice system actually works. Some argue the system is designed to be opaque. The public and the media need not know what happens on the inside. Prisons and jails can sidestep First Amendment rights, leaving those who enter at the discretion of those at the helm of these institutions. Incarcerated people are given little contact with the outside world, some just in the form of lawyer visits and 21-minute phone calls. For visitors allowed inside, it can be like traveling through a byzantine maze, especially in places like Rikers. Physically connecting Rikers to the Free World is just one lone bridge, dubbed the "Bridge of Pain" by rapper Flavor Flav, who did time here.
To reach this island dedicated to mass incarceration, visitors wait on the Queens side at the foot of the bridge, at a public bus stop. After picking up anyone there, the Q100 rumbles across the two-lane bridge. On Rikers, the bus empties its passengers, typically wives, girlfriends, children, extended family members, and friends. Correction officers in street clothes and program and nonprofit volunteers also ride. Although it''s just a four-minute drive, Rikers feels like a different world. Visitors wait in a seemingly endless line to pass through the first security checkpoint. After more waits and delays, they board a second bus--a white Department of Correction (DOC) vehicle with metal-grate-covered windows--which moves them to the specific jail they''re visiting. Here, they undergo another round of security checks.
Diapers, food, money, purses, and reading materials must be checked in lockers at a visitor waiting area. These visits are limited to certain hours, three times a week, and only on weekdays. The visitors then must wait for the Q100''s return ride to Queens to go home to the Free World. Though visits are capped at one hour, a trip to Rikers can take all day. Like so many other jails and prisons, this world of detention is tucked away and out of reach. Obviously, Rikers was not designed to keep families intact. For those in jail, three out of four are locked up because they don''t have the cash to buy their freedom. Those who''ve got the scratch--like Harvey Weinstein, who posted a $1 million bail on his rape charges--pay the price and hang out in the Free World until their court date.
If they have some cash, they can visit a bail-bond shop, which are posted up opportunistically around the nation''s courthouses and jails. Bail bondsmen lend cash bail for sky-high, nonrefundable premiums. The average bail runs around $10,000,.