A Plea to New Mexicans

We are the forgotten voices, men who are said to have offended the laws and proprieties of the communities from which we have come.. This is my plea to New Mexicans.

Society confronts a myriad of problems on an ongoing basis. This is not a look all of those challenges, rather it's an observation, a pointed finger, maybe even an accusation or a whistle blown on the realities of incarceration in the state of New Mexico.

We are the forgotten voices, men who are said to have offended the laws and proprieties of the communities from which we have come, and are therefore not worthy to walk amongst you but, nonetheless, here we are having the courage to speak truth to power for our collective good—yours and ours.

And in doing so, and in solidarity to those of you who pay a hefty price for our incarceration and correction, you need to know that you are not receiving the benefits for which you pay.

The observations and commentary being presented to you, is not done so lightly. Each man interviewed for this piece did so fully aware of the probable retaliations to come. I attest that the responses given and the words spoken were carefully measured by the men who dared to speak them. And none of what is being said here is intended as a provocation.

It is simply an exercise of free speech made as a personal sacrifice in hopes that New Mexicans will listen to the facts and come to know what is really taking place in the Department of Corrections.

Naturally, many of you may feel that us being “criminals” somehow diminishes or disparages the truths that we speak, invalidating whatever we say. But this is not about contesting sentences or validities of convictions.

This is about a false narrative being presented to New Mexicans about the efforts being made by the Department of Corrections for the stated purpose of rehabilitating criminals so as to achieve reintegration.

Many of you may be content or indifferent to having convicted felons deposited into punitive-based institutions where we can be systematically punished for our offenses against society’s property, liberty, life, or simply its general understanding of decency.

After all, punitive recourse has been utilized for as long as humanity has recorded its actions. But, to the dismay of many, this is not the fallen Roman Empire.

This is the Land of the Free, a nation of laws where personal liberties and constitutional guarantees still mean something. We may not all agree on what the laws say or the Constitution guarantees.

And, as a democratic republic, we are free to address our discrepancies in debates, in the exercise of a free speech, and ultimately, at the ballot box.

Nevertheless, since the eighteenth century, the growing consensus of experts regarding criminality is that, despite the horrid outcomes and realities of crime, offenders can be rehabilitated.

I have previously written on the present realities of incarceration in the U.S.  and as I explained, the modern prison was designed for the stated purpose of rehabilitation, though that is seldom the reality of its current state.

In fact, in Article XX, Section 15, of the New Mexico Constitution, the purpose of incarceration is clearly explained: “The penitentiary is a reformatory and industrial school, and all persons confined therein shall, so far as consistent with discipline and the public interest, be employed in some beneficial industry, and where a convict has a dependent family, his net earnings shall be paid to said family if necessary for their support.”

And from this there are four things of significance. One, a “reformatory and industrial school;”two, “discipline;” three, “public interest;” and four, “employed in some beneficial industry.”

Constitutionally speaking, the eleven correctional facilities that house state inmates throughout New Mexico should be schools, institutions of reform and rehabilitation.

Which, when considering the third point, “public interest,” it stands to reason that the purpose of incarceration is to be reformatory, not punitive.

According to Oxford that means to make better by the removal of faults and errors. Strangely enough the term punitive is nowhere to be found in the Constitution related to penitentiaries. Which brings us back to where we began, in that New Mexicans are not receiving the service or benefit for which they are paying.

In the last fiscal year that ended in 2020, taxpayers handed over $339.2 million to the Department of Corrections for the designated purpose of rehabilitating the criminalistic behaviors that cause incalculable damage to property and, in some instances, irreparable harm to people’s lives.

Criminality is a serious problem that society is justified in addressing, which according to the law must be through the corrective process of rehabilitative, reformative efforts.

And to put this into perspective, based on the number of inmates currently incarcerated, New Mexicans are paying over $46,000 per year, annually, for said reformative education.

That is a hefty tuition, especially considering that the annual tuition for a state resident at the University of New Mexico is $40,800., including room and board and textbooks. Of course, higher education is an investment into a student’s future, but it's also an expense that must be paid as individuals or families, either through earnings, scholarships, or debt.

And and to many, this may not seem fair. But the reasoning behind said investment into criminals that isn't afforded to law abiding residents is more an issue of politics than it is a fiscal availability of resources.

Corrections is an investment into a subset of society that for any number of reasons, whether for poor choices, poor circumstances, poor genetics, or simply because of bad luck, we have either stepped, fell, or were pushed into criminality.

Understanding why is helpful but, ultimately, the more relevant question is how to get us back on track. A desired outcome that requires an investment of both time and resources.

This requires individualized assessments, trained professionals in rehabilitative therapies where troubled individuals can be taught discipline, morality, and based on their aptitudes, be given the tools and opportunities to acquire the necessary skills to reinvent themselves through pursuing legitimate professions. Meaning, as inmates, our days should be filled with constructive, industrious activities centered on this agenda.

And, ideally speaking, graduates of this reformatory experience would return to society as functional, contributing members who would pursue careers, pay taxes, and generally make society a better place. And none of this is part of today's reality in corrections when looking at recidivism.

By the Department’s own admission on its website, recidivism for the last year that it reports, 2018, is at 39.2% for offenders that are either charged with new crimes or simply violate probation and parole standards.

The Department only accounts for the first thirty-six months following release. And when looking at figures for nine years after release the percentage increases by over ten percent.

Which is to say that New Mexico's true recidivism rate, according to the National Institute of Justice is over fifty percent.

With an average prison sentence in this state at 17.5 years, taxpayers are investing over $810,000 per inmate for a reformatory education that has an efficacy rate of less than fifty percent.

An amount of money that could have created a surgeon, a civil rights attorney, three school teachers, and half a dozen mechanics.

And, with good cause you might be thinking that we the inmates are at fault. That we are simply too corrupted or unwilling to reform ourselves and that nothing can be done.

But that's the very narrative that got us into this position with mass incarceration to begin with. And it's also another false narrative. Here's why:

Governor Johnson's administration coincided with the birth of mass incarceration in America. The Crime Bill was passed in 1994 and New Mexico followed suit, believing the hype that crime could somehow be reduced if more draconian sentences were imposed.

New crimes were created and suddenly the state’s incarceration rate was skyrocketing.

In response, Governor Johnson opened the door to the very lucrative private prison industry as a low-cost solution to housing a rising population of prisoners. And here is where the problem went from bad to worse.

For years activists for abolishing private prisons have argued that a corporation that profits from incarceration is never going to be motivated to properly rehabilitate someone.

And time and experience has proven this accusation to be true: private prisons are known for higher rates of violence; for perpetually being understaffed; and are constantly sanctioned with fines for failure to adhere to state correctional agendas or policies.

And, as someone who has experienced private prisons from within, the accusations are entirely true with one major addition.

Private prisons recruit staff from high schools, from fast food restaurants, and from other areas of the service industry. They essentially hand keys and badges to bodies that need jobs so that posts can be filled at the lowest cost possible.

Because lower cost for them translates into higher profits for the shareholders. It's more about warehousing than it is rehabilitation, a reality that is very clear when we look again at the aforementioned recidivism rates.

The majority of New Mexico’s male inmates are housed in private facilities, and have been since the nineties. We are warehoused, left to our own devices in pods where violence and drug abuse run rampant.

As far as “industry” or “reformatory” programming is concerned, at most it only ever reaches 10-15 percent of the population at any given facility. Basically, those of us who show ourselves to be the most compliant qualify for employment or industrious activity outside of our pods.

The remaining inmates are assigned to pod porter positions were they, along with fifty others, are expected to sweep and mop the same floor with one broom and one mop. Most don't do it. There are simply too many porters assigned to the very same task that doesn't need to be repeated ad infinitum every day.

The result is that we inmates have to entertain ourselves. Some do so with television, board games, or exercise but the majority fall into the world of prison politics and drug addiction, thereby falling farther down the rabbit hole of criminality.

Which ironically, is the very outcome that New Mexicans are paying high six-figure sums to reform and rehabilitate us from doing.

Basically, we're talking about a racket of transferring funds from the pockets of the taxpayers to the pockets of the corporations like Geo and Core Civic for a rehabilitative service not being delivered. And this is precisely why New Mexicans should care.

Because you are paying for a service not being rendered. In any other context where a service is paid for and not delivered it's called fraud, but in corporate America it's called business as usual.

And in an attempt to better understand what exactly takes place within New Mexico's prisons I sought out some of the very men who have lived it for decades.

Selecting convicts to interview was a challenging task in itself because it required not only finding people who were willing to talk, it required finding men who were willing to speak truth to power.

At the onset of each interview, I said, you will most likely face retaliation from the prison administration for speaking the truth here. And I need you to give me the very same answers that you would give to any administrator if given the opportunity to speak freely.

I did this because, as a convict, my reporting would likely be discredited by the administration who would offer up an interviewee saying that I misquoted him, or threatened or bribed him to say what he said.

Which is also why I refrained from the interviewing anyone that I consider a friend, or who I regularly socialize with. Everyone has a reputation in prison.

Because of which I sought out men who were neither drug addicts, prison informants, or who in anyway could be compromised. A difficult task when easily over 80 percent of the population suffers from drug addiction. A detail we will explore further, later.

I began my interviewing Dean Keith Wheelington II, NMCD # 57889, who has been in the New Mexico Department of Corrections since November, 2002, for homicide. With more than 18 years of correctional clear conduct he has demonstrated himself to be observant, well spoken, and willing to adhere to institutional rules.

I approached him because in May, 2021, more than 20 inmates addressed letters to the Secretary of Corrections, Alisha Tafoya-Lucero, as an attempt to address a variety of grievances not being addressed by the facility administration at NENMCF, in Clayton, New Mexico.

And I wanted to understand why someone who always appeared so imperturbable on the surface would suddenly write a letter that, (a), would probably not be read or addressed by the Secretary, and, (b), would most likely lead to reprisals from the facility administration. To a casual observer it seemed like an action of all risk with no reward.

Our conversation began with me asking Dean about the letter. I was curious to know what specific issues he had addressed to the Secretary.

“I wrote to her about the general mistreatment of the population,” he said. “Specifically, the declining quality of the food, the lack of access to a law library and,” then he paused as he pensively searched for the right words, “and the lack of human consideration during the shakedown.”

Dean referred to a new shakedown procedure seen for the first time during the security search and inventory procedure in late April, 2021. A typical security protocol that usually takes place once or twice a year, but this time the protocol was handled differently.

Instead of asking us to pack our state issued and personal property, then proceed to a secure area so that our property could be inventoried. Our personal property was taken from us and inventoried outside of our presence.

This afforded officers an opportunity to dispose of photos, letters, legal documents, and personal property like watches, glasses, religious medals, wedding bands, or electronics without inmates being afforded any sort of due process. It was essentially an opportunity for officers to settle scores or simply exercise their authority.

Usually, and, according to Constitutional law and NMCD policy, when property items are confiscated the inmate is afforded an opportunity to send items home to family or a loved one. And this right was denied to us.

“Some of the items taken from me were things of personal sentiment,” Dean said, “things that I've had for twenty years. Mementos.”

I understood. It wasn't the monetary value of the things lost, it was a sentimental attachment to those things.

A plastic cup that a friend gave you a decade ago. A personal letter from a loved one who has since passed away. A photograph of a daughter that's irreplaceable.

Maybe a religious medal that you wear around your neck for luck or blessings, or a rosary that you hang above your bed to remind yourself of who you are.

“Then there was the general humiliation of how they did the strip search,” Dean said.

I agreed. Making a human being strip, then bend at the waist and spread his butt cheeks so that a security officer can inspect his anus seems superfluous considering that he'll then be taken to a full body scanner to search for contraband in his colon, anyway.

In some instances redundancy can be good, but when the inspector in question is not a medical professional but rather a camo-clad soldier barking orders with malice, the experience is dehumanizing. And for those who have been sexually traumatized, placing oneself in that compromising position can in itself be traumatizing.

I then asked Dean about any response he may have received from his letter. He explained that on June 4, 2021, he was called out to Captain Jaramillo's office to discuss it.

Apparently, she wanted to know why he hadn't addressed this issue through the grievance process at the facility. To which he responded that throughout all his years in prison the grievance process was never known to resolve anything.

I asked whether or not she had yelled or, in any way disrespected him. I had heard rumors that she had done with others.

“I have to give her that consideration,” he said. “She was respectful. She spoke to me as an adult and I respected that.”

“Did she resolve anything?” I asked.

“No, Covid was used as an excuse for the law library issue, even though that was going on way before Covid,” he said. “She agreed the food was horrible, but didn't commit to anything specific. And as for everything else, she just said that policy and protocol were followed.”

I then asked whether he thought anything had or would come from those letters.

“Yes,” he said. “Because the prison is now aware that we're starting to stand up for ourselves. I'm just afraid that it's not enough.” A sentiment that I had heard from others. “I'm afraid of what level of attention it will have to go to—to be enough.”

Again, I understood. Inmate on staff violence is rare, but when it does happen it could very well be a question of life or death. And when it's the latter, the Department inevitably presents it to the public as “unprovoked violence,” something that has never been true throughout my seventeen years of living incarcerated.

When a staff member is assaulted or killed it is because someone was pushed, prodded or otherwise maneuvered beyond their breaking point. It usually begins with indifference, an unwillingness to recognize us as human beings.

Then comes the hostility through various forms of antagonism that manifests itself over the time like drips of water to the forehead for centuries. And from there to madness, it's close enough to smell.

I asked Dean what he thought corrections should be like. Should it just be about warehousing, or should there be actual rehabilitation involved?

He said that corrections should require “case by case analysis by qualified personnel.” Something that's not taking place in New Mexico because “there is not enough criteria or education required of those who currently work in corrections.”

We then discussed the aforementioned budgeted amount of tax dollars that NMCD is afforded annually. He was surprised because he had witnessed a steady decline in both the “quality” and “availability” of rehabilitative programming. Specifically, he spoke of the M. R. T. program, a supposed moral recognition therapy that “doesn't meet the standards that we need.”

For years I have listened to inmates grumble that the waiting list for M.R.T. is long and that it always prioritizes those with the shortest sentences, leaving most inmates in limbo for years before any type of therapeutic programming is made available.

“Which means” he said, “that we're forced to spend more and more time in our cells without any kind of meaningful rehabilitation.”

I received similar answers from another inmate I interviewed, Jeff Taylor, NMCD # 55250, who entered corrections in 2001.

He referred to it as “a steady errosion of resources and diminishing opportunities, that has even taken basic employment from us.” then added, “years ago they tried to keep us busy with all kinds of activities, but now everything is a security threat and now all they care about is warehousing us.”

Jeff explained that what inmates need is a system of “reeducation, an opportunity to find within themselves that internal fortitude to identify where they went wrong in life and then be afforded the tools to address it.”

During the same shakedown the security staff destroyed his legal work for his appeals, which he does himself because he can't afford an attorney; then confiscated his legal books and without his knowledge arbitrarily disposed of his personal property. In response to his rights being violated he declared a hunger strike for several days.

He was taken to medical segregation for observation, but eventually conceded defeat. I asked him whether his property was ever returned to him, or whether he had ever done a hunger strike before.

“No,” he said on both accounts.

I began to wonder if maybe this was part of what Dean had referred to when he said that he feared where we would go from here if people don't start having their issues addressed. Hunger strikes might just be the beginning. Or, if history or experience are indicators of anything—violence. Let us hope not.

I try to be empathetic to the predicament of administrators in corrections. They must understand that they are sitting on an atypical grenade with the pin already pulled. Could they really be oblivious to the lit fuse on the powder keg that they themselves are filling?

Or, are they just like so many bureaucrats, shielded by immunity in one form or another and, because of which, indifferent to the inevitable blow back or blowup that they themselves are instigating?

Or, maybe it's just a question of self-preservation like so many bureaucrats today. They entered the correctional profession because it was a government job that didn't require a college degree that offered good benefits.

And now, naturally, they want to protect what they have. Which means protecting the status quo, the way things have always been done.

They understand that the system isn't working for the state, for the taxpayers, or for the men and women sentenced to their care. But it's working for them.

Reforms and change would only get them removed from their jobs because at some point someone would realize they have never been qualified for the positions they hold. And if that were to happen, where would they be employable if not in a prison?

A honed skillset of knowing how to taunt and torment already traumatized individuals that were forcefully separated from their identities and all that they love in life is not exactly something you can put on a bio.

It's a lot like putting executioner or expertin enhanced interrogation methods on a civilian résumé. Don't expect the phone to ring for a normal job.

Both Dean and Jeff agreed that there is nobody in the entire facility qualified to rehabilitate anyone. Especially not when the system itself is actually causing the majority of the trauma.

The Department’s focus is on acquiring security personnel, not therapists or sociologists qualified to evaluate the criminality triggers that have brought someone to incarceration and then develop a plan for how to rehabilitate and heal said individuals from the damage already done, all without causing more.

This year, instead of relevant and desperately needed programming, potentially accompanied by qualified rehabilitative professionals, the Department instead purchased riot gear, weapons, and camouflage uniforms for its C.E.R.T. team.

I asked Jeff about the recent militarization of correctional staff with their gear and uniforms. He described it as a “disgrace to the real Armed Forces that wear that uniform.” And added that, “the military uniforms are just another form of psychological attack against the inmate population.” And when I addressed the issue of the military uniforms with Dean, his observation was that when the staff uses their military-garb, “they turn into a street gang.”

I agree. We've all seen them first-bump and hug one another like brothers-in-arms after another glorious victory on the field of battle. Some of them even wear the military patches that say Airborne, or the one with the advancing forward leaning flag. When did we become the enemy to be advanced upon? Or for that matter, when did we become the enemy?

As my conversation with Dean opened into his personal observations of self, he said, “I had to come to prison to become a criminal. I committed a crime of passion, a murder, that's what brought me to prison. But surviving prison is what turned me into a criminal.”

That is a troubling confession when you consider the amount of money that has already been paid by the taxpayers for his reformatory education: approximately $1.2 million. How many

doctors, teachers, engineers, programmers, architects, or professional athletes or artists could have been nurtured to excellence for that same investment? It is entirely possible that Dean could have been any of those things. Instead he was taught to survive through institutional oppression to be a criminal.

I asked Dean if he felt that he was prepared to reenter society. He said, “I'm not prepared. I have no idea how technology works. I don't even know how to use the tablet I have for my music. I wouldn't make it twenty-four hours out there because I don't know how to integrate myself into the tech world.”

In the world of New Mexico Corrections, technology is kept from us with the same determined resolve of keeping a loaded gun from a child. We went from using typewriters and dot-matrix word processors to pen and paper, then to pencils and paper. We're moving backwards.

In other countries with reformative and rehabilitative agendas, places like Germany, Sweden, Denmark or Great Britain inmates have laptops with limited educational and commutative access to the internet in their rooms.

They have monitored cell phones with limited applications. They can do monitored video calls with their families from their rooms. And their recidivism rates are a mere fraction of New Mexico’s. I discuss this in a previous article.

Administrators in New Mexico use the term “security” to rationalize anything that doesn't make sense. We can't have hard covered books because of security concerns, but we can have stones the size of grapefruits on the rec yard. We can't have email access on our tablets, but we can have drugs applied to paper and sent to us through the mail.

We can't have access to a typewriter or word processor to write a legal brief for the courts, but we can have handheld video games or a tablet for buying music at exorbitant prices. Does any of this makes sense?

How would any of us feel if instead of educating and preparing our children for either higher education or a suitable trade, APS (Albuquerque Public Schools) was instead systematically enabling them to be criminals, drug addicts, or both? Let's consider the following:

Last year the budget for APS, the largest school district in the state, in charge the managing 144 schools and providing suitable curriculum and instruction to 75,300 students was afforded a budget of $1.56 billion. That's an annual investment of $20,717 per student, annually.

Compare that to the more than $46,000 being expended on inmates, and what we're confronted with is a dilemma. And not necessarily because so much is being spent on inmates while so little is being invested into the students.

Rather, the disgrace comes from our insistence on spending absurd amounts of money just to warehouse, punitively treat, and further traumatize people when the objective should be to educate and reform as the Constitution says.

Who benefits from any of this other than the private corporations who profit from this madness? Because it's not the tax payers and it's most certainly not the families.

The Department of Corrections, in its current state, is a missed opportunity that repeats itself year after year. If it lived up to its Constitutional mandate it could improve lives, reunite families, heal wounds, and even from a fiscal standpoint, see a return on investment.

And just maybe that return on investment could be further invested into our children to potentially prevent them from ever stepping or falling into criminality to begin with. Maybe it's just a dream. But I'm told that dreams come true sometimes. And if it can come true, then it must.

So what's stopping the change?

Well, to begin with, the Department of Corrections is filled with bureaucratic dinosaurs that have worked there for decades. Take Adam Vigil, for example, he retired from the Department over a decade ago but returned to draw a salary on top of his pension.

The same with German Franco, retired but returned. Individuals like these enjoy the benefits of pensions, plus salaries, along with an emeritus title for a function that they weren't qualified for to begin with.

They entered the system as correctional officers and just never left. Primarily because their skills aren’t transferable. Which brings us to the issue of nepotism.

When I spoke to another inmate, Nick Castellanos, NMCD #58084, about my intention to write this piece, the first thing that he mentioned to me was nepotism.

Jeff brought it up as well, as an obstacle to reforms, pointing out that the chain of command at NENMCF is filled with brothers and cousins and spouses and lovers so that everyone is trying to cover everyone else’s flank. Which makes people hesitant to file complaints or grievances for fear of retaliation.

Nick specifically argued that, “the major problems are all related to the grievance process. It's arbitrary, not unlike the reality of the justice system itself. You file one and never hear anything back because they protect one another.”

“Like a gang?” I asked, thinking of Dean's comment.

“Just like that.” But Nick also explained about the false narratives. In particular, “the joke of drug testing.”

According to the Department’s website, between 2015 and 2019 drug use at the facilities has increased 205 percent. But even as deplorable as that may seem it's a dream narrative because they want the public to believe that less than 4 percent of inmates suffer from drug addiction. A false narrative for several reasons.

First, because despite Departmental assurances that inmates are being selected randomly for drug tests, this is far from the case.

Every inmate knows that “random” tests always seem to bring together the same faces in the gym almost every month. And over the years I have heard more than one seargent say that the drug tests were just window dressing to make the Department look good.

Second, the tests given don't even screen for the most popular street drugs currently in the prison. The tests look for drugs like narcotics, marijuana and meth. But, what about spice?

It's a chemical applied to paper and smoked. The substance has been known to cause brain aneurysms, delayed reflexes, euphoria, and even induce heart attacks and deaths.

It's highly addictive and it leaves inmates walking around like zombies, which makes them easier to control when being warehoused. And warehousing is not what New Mexicans should be paying for.

You pay for a reformatory education that few, if any, in the Department are qualified to give.You pay for the profits paid to shareholders at corporations like Geo and Core Civic.

You pay for Corporate excursions in Florida, officer appreciation banquets, and military garb for its C.E.R.T. team. None of which translates into reformed individuals prepared to reenter and positively contribute to society. And that's precisely what we need.

We need the state legislature and Governor Grisham-Lujan to act. Private prisons need to be closed. The Secretary of Corrections needs to clean house and install qualified professionals who see those who are incarcerated as opportunities, future professionals, and loving parents that are capable of being reformed.

The Department needs to own up to the reality that more than 80 percent of the inmate population is addicted to drugs. Because for true assessments to take place requires real, trained professionals that see us as people with potential, because that is what we are and have always been.

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