Updates

[A version of this story was previously published at  MeisterArchive.com]

By David J. Meister

When the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, headlines centered on abortion rights. But buried in the decision was a legal shift with consequences far beyond reproductive freedom. In Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization (2022), the majority not only rejected a constitutional right to abortion—it cast doubt on the legitimacy of substantive due process, a doctrine that underpins many of the rights people in prison still have.

Justice Clarence Thomas didn’t mince words. In his concurring opinion, he urged the Court to revisit every case decided under substantive due process: Griswold v. Connecticut (contraception), Lawrence v. Texas (private sexual conduct), and Obergefell v. Hodges (same-sex marriage). But the implications go even further—into the prison system, where thousands of people depend on this doctrine for basic rights.

If substantive due process is dismantled, incarcerated people won’t just lose abstract protections. They’ll lose tangible rights tied to medical care, humane confinement, family contact, and bodily autonomy. Some already have.

The Legal Foundation at Risk

Substantive due process is the idea that some rights are so fundamental that the government can’t infringe on them—even with fair procedures. It’s been used to affirm personal liberties not explicitly named in the Constitution but deemed essential to human dignity.

In prison law, this doctrine fills gaps left by the Eighth Amendment. That amendment bars cruel and unusual punishment, but only applies to convicted prisoners. What about people locked up before trial? Or those in civil commitment centers? Or immigrant detention?

The Supreme Court addressed this in Bell v. Wolfish (1979), ruling that pretrial
detainees are protected under the Fourteenth Amendment’s substantive due process clause. Unlike convicted individuals, they haven’t been sentenced to punishment—so they can’t be subjected to punitive conditions at all.

This distinction has shaped how courts handle cases involving:

• • • Civil commitment: Detaining someone indefinitely for mental health or public safety reasons must serve a therapeutic, not punitive, purpose.
      Immigrant detention: Detainees awaiting deportation have the right to humane treatment and medical care.
    • Involuntary medication: The state can’t forcibly medicate someone without a legitimate government interest and due process procedures.
    • Medical autonomy: Even behind bars, people retain limited rights to refuse
      non-emergency treatment.
    • Parental visitation: Some courts have recognized a liberty interest in maintaining family contact, especially for incarcerated parents.

None of these protections come from the Eighth Amendment. They exist because courts have recognized substantive due process as a necessary safeguard. If the doctrine is overturned, these rights don’t get replaced. They disappear.

This is especially concerning given the demographics of incarceration. Pretrial detainees make up roughly one-third of the jail population in the United States. That’s hundreds of thousands of people who haven’t been convicted of a crime but are subjected to conditions that often mirror or exceed those of sentenced inmates. If substantive due process protections are removed, there would be no constitutional barrier to punitive treatment of people who are presumed innocent.

The Real-World Consequences

Let’s take a real example: someone held in jail awaiting trial. They haven’t been convicted. They haven’t been sentenced. But in many jurisdictions, they’re locked down 20 hours a day, denied meaningful programming, and subjected to conditions no different from convicted inmates.

Under current law, this can be challenged as a violation of substantive due process. If that doctrine no longer applies? There’s no constitutional recourse.
The same is true for someone in civil commitment who’s being warehoused indefinitely without treatment. Or an immigrant detainee subjected to medical neglect. Or a prisoner forcibly medicated with antipsychotics despite having non-violent charges and no history of danger.

These aren’t hypotheticals. These cases are happening. Substantive due process is often the only doctrine giving courts a framework to push back.

Consider the implications for incarcerated parents. In many cases, prison policies arbitrarily restrict or eliminate access to visitation, phone calls, or correspondence. Substantive due process has been used to challenge these policies, especially when they disrupt the parent-child bond without legitimate justification. If this legal tool disappears, so does the ability to contest those restrictions.

And then there’s medical autonomy. Prisoners already face extraordinary challenges accessing care. Denials of treatment, long delays, and medical indifference are all too common. Substantive due process has been invoked in cases where inmates refused non-emergency treatment—like chemotherapy or surgery—and were punished or coerced into compliance. Removing this safeguard makes it easier for prison officials to force compliance under the guise of security or cost-saving.

What the Courts Might Do—and What They Might Not

Justice Alito’s majority opinion in Dobbs suggests that only rights “deeply rooted in the Nation’s history and tradition” deserve protection. That framing excludes many modern understandings of human dignity—including those that apply in jails and prisons.

Justice Thomas goes further: he doesn’t just question the doctrine’s scope; he rejects it outright. If the Court adopts his view in a future case, the fallout for incarcerated people could be immediate and devastating.

In theory, Congress or state legislatures could step in and codify these rights. But history shows that constitutional protections for people in custody rarely get replaced with statutory ones. Without a constitutional floor, the rights of prisoners become discretionary—subject to the politics of the moment.

And politics are rarely kind to the incarcerated. Lawmakers are more likely to posture on “tough-on-crime” rhetoric than to introduce bills protecting the rights of people in prison. That leaves any hope of protection resting on unstable political ground. Substantive due process may not be perfect—but without it, incarcerated people face a legal vacuum.

The Bottom Line

Most people don’t realize how much of prison law depends on substantive due process. It’s not just a legal technicality. It’s the foundation for humane treatment, medical care, and the basic principle that people who haven’t been convicted shouldn’t be punished.

If the doctrine falls, the Constitution offers no alternative. There is no backup plan.

Incarcerated people have long lived on the margins of constitutional protection. Without substantive due process, even that margin disappears.

We’re not just talking about legal theory. We’re talking about whether people in custody will be treated as human beings—or as wards of a state with no duty to respect their autonomy, health, or dignity. That choice may soon rest in the hands of a Court ready to erase the only doctrine that has ever tried to draw that line.

[A version of this story was previously published at  MeisterArchive.com]

By David J. Meister

By the nature of incarceration, U.S. prisoners are totally reliant on facility  officials to provide adequate medical care. That is a major operational  expense. An industry of private healthcare providers has emerged to fill a  need traditionally—if reluctantly—filled by government, offering cheaper solutions.

Typically, a prison healthcare provider is paid a fixed amount per inmate (e.g., $20–$25) housed at the facility. A 2,000-bed facility, for example, might pay a private provider $40,000 to $50,000 a day, or $14 to $18 million a year. Serious dollars.

From that sum, the company employs staff, covers overhead, and pays for outside medical services like specialist care and hospital visits. What money remains on the back end, the company keeps as profit.

Their grimy business model: provide less medical care, employ fewer staff, stock fewer supplies, reduce outside referrals, and always use the cheapest alternative for all of the above. Maximize profits (or the shareholders will sue). Although the ethical boundary is in the rearview mirror, it’s definitely not illegal for a healthcare provider to increase revenue by innovating ways to save costs.

It is illegal to purposely provide inadequate healthcare to prisoners. However—considering the thousands of prisoner lawsuits filed every year and their relatively dismal success rate—prison healthcare providers have clearly  learned to ride the line between maximum corporate earnings and civil liability.

DENY. DELAY. DEFEND.

Cheap, easy, convenient medical problems are treated swiftly and with a good bedside manner. Public relations. More serious (expensive) medical issues are processed… differently.

Take a common scenario, for example: when an inmate breaks a foot playing sports.

Initially, care will be denied—that is, the inmate will be triaged, given ibuprofen, possibly a wheelchair but more likely crutches, and told to submit a Health Service Request (HSR) form. After submitting the HSR, the inmate will be triaged again by a Nurse’s Assistant within the next day or week, and possibly referred for X-rays and a provider visit. Neither of these  appointments will likely be scheduled unless the inmate submits a second HSR complaining that the injury is going untreated. Another triage by an NA would follow, but no real treatment of the broken foot.

The next step is to delay care as long as possible. When a persistent patient presses for care, the provider (usually a Nurse Practitioner) might dole out “consolation” care (a boot or cast, physical therapy, more ibuprofen) while promising care that doesn’t come—appointments aren’t scheduled, scheduled appointments are missed, specialists “aren’t available,” any excuse to delay delivery of substantial care.

Substantial care is delayed until the patient gives up or prevails on an official grievance. Ideally, by then, the inmate’s medical condition has degraded beyond the point of no return and remedies become futile. The broken foot healed on its own, crooked and atrophied, and after a great deal of unnecessary pain.

The last step in the process is to defend. Prison healthcare providers bank on most prisoners giving up on their requests for care, but in the one-in-a-hundred case when an inmate actually litigates inadequate medical care, the system has the prisoner at a huge disadvantage. This is where prison healthcare departs from free-world healthcare—inordinate restraint on prisoner litigation changes everything.

LITIGATION: FEDERAL v. STATE COURT

So how do providers escape liability? Short answer: the legal system is stacked in their favor.

An internet search of prisoner cases alleging inadequate medical treatment might crash your browser. Prison medical companies survive tsunamis of inmate lawsuits by exploiting barriers lawmakers created around prisoner litigation. It starts with unfairly difficult and demanding prison grievance procedures that must be exhausted to the letter or any subsequent lawsuit will be dismissed at the court’s doorstep. (Google PLRA.) Claims that successfully emerge on the other end of that bureaucratic gauntlet face a Hobson’s Choice.

An inmate may choose one of two jurisdictions to file a medical claim: the local federal District Court (for Eighth Amendment claims), or the nearest state trial court. Really, this choice is between (1) an insurmountably high burden of proof for federal constitutional claims, or (2) an impossible requirement to produce an expert on state malpractice claims.

FEDERAL COURT: DELIBERATE INDIFFERENCE

To state a viable constitutional claim in federal court, an inmate must prove deliberate indifference, meaning that the provider knew of a serious medical need and deliberately chose an inappropriate course of treatment that harmed the patient. Deliberate indifference is essentially the civil equivalent to criminal “recklessness.” Farmer v. Brennan, 511 U.S. 825, 836 (1991). Deliberate indifference is an extremely high standard beyond malpractice and even
gross negligence. Balla v. Idaho, 29 F.4th 1019, 1025-26 (9th Cir. 2022).

If, say, a provider failed to note a medication allergy even though it was a professional duty to collect that information, and later the inmate became ill from a prescription that should not have been administered, the inmate would have to prove both that the provider deliberately failed to collect allergy information and that the provider knew the inmate would be prescribed medication that would cause an allergic reaction. It is virtually impossible to prove either element unless the provider confesses to them. More likely, they’d claim “inadvertence,” which may be negligent (malpractice), but not deliberate indifference.

STATE COURT: MEDICAL MALPRACTICE

That same failure to collect allergy information would likely be actionable in state court under professional negligence—medical malpractice in this case. The standard of proof for medical malpractice is preponderance of evidence that the provider breached a professional duty of due care, causing the inmate harm. A provider’s failure to complete a mandatory checklist involving
medical allergies is facially proof of negligence, and is much easier to prove in court than deliberate indifference.

Why, then, wouldn’t inmates plead the easier standard of medical malpractice in state court?

They don’t, because state law usually requires a medical expert for a plaintiff to proceed on a malpractice claim. See, e.g., Idaho Code § 6-1013. A state court will dismiss a prisoner’s malpractice lawsuit, preliminarily, if an expert is not lined up to testify about (1) the usual standards of healthcare in the community and (2) that the healthcare in dispute fell below those standards. Nonnegotiable—even if the conduct is plainly within average understanding, such as when a provider fails to check for allergies before prescribing medication.

Then find a medical expert, right? Unfortunately, most prisoners cannot afford legal counsel and there is no right to appointment of legal counsel at public expense in these types of civil cases. And the number of medical experts that will consult on a legal case with an unrepresented
inmate equals the number of unicorns frolicking the woods out back.

If an inmate is represented by counsel, two huge barriers persist: availability and cost.

The politics of professionals like medical doctors may be fundamentally antagonistic to helping inmates, and the pool of experts in the area might not be willing to assist inmates because of their crimes. That’s the first problem, and it’s not uncommon. The second problem is that medical experts charge between $400 and $600 an hour, with other assorted fees on top. Case
review, consultation, affidavits, depositions, hearing testimony, trial testimony—all add up to tens of thousands of dollars at least. Prohibitively expensive to inmates.

There is a slim chance that a neutral medical expert could be appointed to advise the court. In such case, that’s a huge advantage to the inmate because prison healthcare providers are usually, in fact, guilty of violating their professional duties and an expert is likely to confirm that.

But it’s rare for a court to do this in an inmate case, and few inmates possess the knowledge or legal expertise to ask.

WHAT CAN THEY DO?

Prison healthcare providers are intimately aware of the legal nuances that end inmate medical lawsuits before they begin. That security against liability was copied into the corporate manual, and prison healthcare providers now operate at the level of gross negligence—just shy of deliberate indifference—keeping them and their investors in the money.

An attorney who is expert in the traps and pitfalls of prisoner litigation and who is willing to invest their own cash into a hired-gun medical expert would, in theory, clean up. With the right finances, they could find dozens of good cases at one prison alone—they’d prove medical malpractice all day long. And yet this just doesn’t happen.

If I had to guess, I would blame fee caps that the PLRA and parallel state laws have placed on the dollar amount an attorney can recover for their work on an inmate’s case. These caps might reduce attorney’s fees to less than half of normal rates. On top of that, jury awards in many jurisdictions tend to be lower, awarding comparatively minuscule damages in prisoner cases.
Combining the degree of difficulty with a smaller potential payoff, attorneys have little incentive to take inmate cases.

The reality is that prisoners are forced to file deliberate-indifference claims on their own in federal court (where experts aren’t strictly required), where  there’s a slim margin of success… but at least a chance to make a case.

Incarcerated labor can reduce the burden on taxpayers, improve the prison system and prepare people like me for life after prison.

[Originally published by Prison Journalism Project.]

By James Mancuso

Idaho spends almost $75 a day to house me and every other person in its prisons. At around 8,000 people incarcerated, that’s nearly $220 million a year. Imagine if you had an item in your garage that cost $75 a day to store, all the while becoming less and less useful. Would you simply keep it there?

This is the reality for the majority of people behind bars. I too used to lead a stagnant life where I had no job and no responsibility. I was placed in storage, all on the taxpayer’s dime. I didn’t worry about where my housing, food and clothing were coming from.This life of dependence can continue once people leave prison with few work skills and mounting debts.

What if the state instead gave everyone jobs? Not only would that save the state and its taxpayers money. If done responsibly, it would help people on their journey toward rehabilitation.

The 13th Amendment abolished slavery for everyone except those convicted of a crime. As harsh as that sounds, I agree with the intent of the amendment, with the exception of how it has been historically used against Black and brown people to exploit them. Work would offer an opportunity to prepare incarcerated individuals for a self-sufficient life after prison, while making use of their labor to improve the prison system.

Roughly 30% of people incarcerated in Idaho work some kind of job. They provide janitorial and maintenance services inside prisons, and help with state road projects, firefighting and forest initiatives. A smaller number work in trades based on vocational training programs, according to data provided by the Idaho Department of Corrections.

At the Idaho State Correctional Institution, around 130 incarcerated people — myself included — are employed by Idaho Correctional Industries in full-time construction and manufacturing jobs. We make items that are sold to nonprofits and government agencies. Right now we are making 170 maple bunk beds and end tables for the military. The metal shop recently made truck racks for Idaho Fish and Game. The graphics shop makes street signs and plaques, and once even made promo stickers for a landfill.

These jobs give people real-world work experience and skills, and ease the burden of incarceration for the taxpayer. The only real problem is that the program has limited capacity which means few people benefit.

Expanding programs like this could provide low-cost labor for construction, manufacturing and farming — industries that lie at the heart of the United States’ current trade battles. At my aging facility, the large recreational field is in complete disrepair and the crumbling medical annex stairs are unusable. With budget cuts to state agencies, I doubt these repairs will be made. Our labor could fill the gaps.

Expanding the vocational training program could have other benefits. In Maine for example, a new program allows incarcerated individuals to work remotely. According to reporting from Maine Public radio, not only do 10% of wages of people earning above a certain level go back to the DOC for room and board, assaults on staff have drastically declined too.

Idaho retailers and wholesalers could work with similar programs to build businesses that would benefit all state residents, generate tax revenue and provide jobs for more than just the incarcerated. Picture poultry barns we build that could provide eggs to the prisons be sold wholesale or offered to the Idaho Foodbank. This could be done with all kinds of agricultural products. We could even run culinary production facilities that cater to Idaho-based companies.

To safeguard against exploitation, Idaho would need to change how it manages its incarcerated population. I propose medium custody, labor-centric facilities where those willing to work and follow the rules are offered full-time jobs with degrees of freedom similar to what they could expect on college campuses. Workers could be paid a wage of $1 to $4 an hour. This would allow the state to benefit from the labor, while allowing incarcerated residents to develop valuable work skills, begin to pay debts incurred inside and save some money for release. Those who have demonstrated they can thrive in this environment should automatically be granted parole when they are up for it.

Of course not everyone agrees. Prison labor is a well-known catalyst for abuse that can include backbreaking tasks, inadequate nutrition, dangerous work conditions and meager wages. Some critics argue an emphasis on labor would deprioritize investments in education, mental health or reentry programming.

But I think these investments go hand in hand. I make $1.75 an hour in my manufacturing job, enough every month to save $50, purchase about $60 in phone time, buy hygiene essentials and coffee, and donate a little to the Idaho Foodbank, all while paying 20% of my wages to my owed restitution. Working hasn’t stopped me from my education and reentry goals. I’m currently taking a weekly computer class and a victim empathy class, and I participate in a peer mentoring program.

Idaho already has an example it could build on: the community reentry centers, where individuals nearing release live and work in communities. Because operating costs are partially covered by the residents’ wages, daily costs are almost $17 less per resident. And these employed residents keep a lot more money in their pockets. According to a report by the office responsible for evaluating Idaho state programs, residents in reentry centers had an average account balance of $5,605, compared to $58 for people in prison who work jobs.

Expanding the model to people who are not yet close to release would reap huge economic and social benefits, for both the prison system and the people it incarcerates.

In my experience, most incarcerated people want to contribute to society to make up for the damage they have done. By taking more of us out of storage and putting us to work, Idaho could help people repay their debts to the state and its taxpayers, while also giving us a leg up to succeed once we get out.

On October 05, 2015, the Honorable Judge Steven Hippler handed me a 15-to-40-year prison sentence for two count of arson. During my sentencing hearing, he said it wasn’t clear from what affliction I suffered and whether I was capable of responding to treatment. Starting in 2021, I began writing Hippler on an annual basis to share how I’m serving my time in prison and attempting to reconcile the harm that I’ve caused others. I don’t know if he reads my letters because he has yet to write me back. Maybe he never will, but I find it nonetheless important to include him in my efforts.

12/25/25
Greetings Judge Hippler,

I hope this update finds you in good health and spirits! Would you believe I kept so busy during year 11 of my incarceration that I again didn’t have time to take up an institutional job? Not to worry, Your Honor, I’m taking steps to change this in April, when a highly coveted position becomes available in my facility’s Audio/Visual department, where a local nonprofit empowers prisoners to participate in commercial video production work for commercial pay.

Here’s some of what I did do this year:

• • • Helped manage and grow my prison’s peer-mentor program
    • Worked with a Berlin (Germany) artist to create a specialty coloring/fun book
    • Participated in a Victims Impact class piloted at my prison
    • Answered ACLU-Idaho‘s request to share my experiences with Idaho’s criminal justice system
    • Gained membership into the Prison Journalism Project (PJP) chapter for the Society of Professional Journalists
    • Interviewed for an awareness campaign with the Institute to End Mass Incarceration, on the subject of prison journalism
    • Completed an A/V training course using DaVinci Resolve software
    • Completed and repeated a course on Advanced Investing
    • Entered PJP’s new Learning+ program
    • Published several written works away from my blog
    • Maintained a positive attitude while watching skin cancer spread on my face
    • Completed an Idaho State University administrative services course
    • Joined the advocacy platform prisonprofessors.org
    • Appeared in profile with 20 other U.S. prison writers during the launch of PEN America’s Incarcerated Writers Bureau
    • Received a brief mention online from People Magazine
    • Co-published an illustrated story on Idaho prison life with an amazing artist and elder who crafted the limited-edition bookmark I am enclosing as a token of our blossoming friendship About the PJP articles

I’ve also enclosed [“Who Should Care for the Elderly in Prison?“, “The Value of Mentors in Prison“] — I’ve been sending out copies to Idaho media, sheriffs and lawmakers. I plan to develop relationships with local jail officials so that I might connect those in their custody with mentors when I’m released.

Keep up the good work, Your Honor. And thank you for serving Idaho!

Happy holidays,

Patrick Irving
Bookofirving82431.com

IDAHO DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTION Resident Concern Form

Resident: Patrick Irving IDOC Number: 82431
Institution, Housing Unit, & Cell: ISCI 13A-12B
Date: 12/21/25 To: Health Services Administrator Russell Hill

Issue/Concern: “I first reported a disturbing growth on my nose 1/8/24 during a routine physical. A biopsy performed 5/13/24 failed to confirm it was cancer. The provider who performed the biopsy refused my request to see a dermatologist, stating the issue was cosmetic and would likely heal itself.

After performing a second biopsy Nov. 2025 and identifying the now aggressive growth as cancer, medical staff attributed the initial false results to an insufficient sample and indicated the need for reconstructive surgery once the cancer is removed.

Please describe the steps you will take to treat my medical issue with urgency and honor all medical recommendations to result from prior inadequate treatment.

It is my absolute pleasure to introduce to you some of the most dedicated writers working from within U.S. prisons today!

I couldn’t imagined when I started this blog that I would be profiled among them by PEN America’s Incarcerated Writers Bureau. According to pen.org, [The IWB] “is a digital resource that will make professional and creative opportunities more accessible to writers in U.S. prisons. The website features information for publishers, literary agents, and journalists seeking to work with incarcerated writers, a searchable roster of featured writers, and a database for publishers and media platforms to submit opportunities for writers working from prison.”

Check out IWB webpages here.

The IWB earlier this year invited me to speak over video on the importance of using person-centered language in media writing. The invitation followed the video presentation I delivered last year to forensic linguists at Aston University in Birmingham, England. I am grateful to Idaho Department of Correction officials for approving me to present to the Aston audience. But by denying the IWB’s request to leverage my personal and professional experience, the agency missed an amazing opportunity to positively impact national discourse surrounding public safety issues.

Click here to view videos by other prison writers involved with the IWB

View People Magazine’s online mention of the IWB and Patrick’s endeavors here.

It’s that time of year again, folks! The 2025 Cookies for Corrections drive is wrapping up. And according to my favorite radio host, Mark Renick, the goal this year is to hand-deliver holiday warmth and cookies to at least 6,000 Idaho prisoners. It’s a logistical feat that rivals nearly everything the Romans accomplished! The cut-off date for contributions is December 8th, and there are multiple Treasure Valley locations where you can drop off store-bought cookies or leave funds to fuel the cause. To learn more about Cookies for Corrections and ways to participate, visit svdpid.org.

Spared from euthanasia, these pups patrol a strip of prison land in Idaho to keep people from escaping.

By James Mancuso

[This article was originally published at the Prison Journalism Project and appears here with author’s permission]

Around nearly every prison is a fence topped with razor wire. Just beyond that fence is often another one, creating between the two a forbidden zone where only weeds grow — and, in the case of Idaho State Correctional Institution, where guard dogs roam.

Dogs are not rare in prisons. There are dog training programs in prisons across the country, including here. And prison systems in some states rely on dogs to detect drugs or even attack prisoners, including in their cells. The United States may be the only country in the world where it is legal to use attack dogs in this way, according to reporting from Business Insider.

But having dogs patrol prison grounds to stop or deter escapes appears to be rare.

The guard dogs at our prison were referred to as “former death row inmates” in a 2009 story from the Associated Press. That’s because prior to working in prison the dogs had exhibited sufficiently violent behavior that they were scheduled for euthanasia. Then they were given a last chance as prison guard dogs.

“Those same instincts that make them a bad pet make them good sentries,” a guard who headed the sentry dog program, which began in 1986, told the AP. At the time, the program had a stock of 24 dogs, “mostly German shepherds, Rottweilers and Belgian malinois, with a few boxers and pit bulls,” the AP reported.

These dogs have long intrigued me, especially because of what they have in common with incarcerated people. I tried to find more details, but a sergeant told me she couldn’t answer questions about a security program. Left to fill in the blanks myself, I did as much boots-on-the-ground reporting as possible, and even attempted to interview a dog.

Are the dogs happy?

One day, my friend Shawn Kerrigan and I were walking around the big ball field when a kennel wagon came to pick up a dog. The dogs work in shifts, covering the prison 24 hours a day.

“Those dogs are happy,” Shawn said. “They get to go back to their kennel where they have toys, air conditioning and food.”

“I thought they were just cycled through the dog runs,” I said.

“No,” Kerrigan said, shaking his head definitively. “They have a building … where they are treated very well.”

Kerrigan, who has been in the prison system for the last 30 years, said former incarcerated dog handlers told him about the building.

I have seen incarcerated people working these doghandling jobs, but I haven’t been able to speak with them.

The dogs are supposed to bark when someone approaches the fence, according to the AP’s reporting: “Get too close to the fence and they will bare their teeth, bark and lunge. Set foot in their space and they will attack.”

In 2009, an IDOC staff member told the AP the dogs were used because they were cheaper than hiring people, and more dependable in some ways than modern technology like motion detectors and electric fences.

So far, I’ve found that most of the dogs between the fences ignore prison residents. But a few interact with us. One German shepherd with a pink collar has perked up and barked at me when I’ve jogged past the ball field, the perimeter of which he patrols outside.

Another dog gamefully “chased” me along the 50-yard fence during my seven-lap jog in our recreation yard. When I walked to cool down, she whined at me and wagged her tail expectantly. I indulged her and took off sprinting, letting her chase me. I figured it was good practice for her, and she was enjoying herself.

When I’ve seen the dogs getting picked up from their shift, I’ve been amazed at how obedient they are. They are so well behaved it has made me wonder what they had done to end up here. It’s probably similar to how you might wonder what we did to end up in prison.

Better than death

Randy McKinney spent 27 years on Idaho’s death row before his sentence was commuted to life without the possibility of parole.

McKinney said the dogs are a good metaphor for what happened to him.

“Those dogs got a limited second chance,” he said. Though they weren’t given a second chance at freedom, they got a second chance at life.

“It’s better than death,” McKinney said.

One person at our prison, Shane Smith, told me the dogs should be put out of their misery.

“I’m just saying, they have to sit there all day, every day, and barely get any human contact at all,” Smith said.

I told him that I’d seen dogs jumping in the kennel wagon by themselves, and how they wag their tails when they get a chance to bark at prisoners or guards. I told him what Kerrigan said about the dogs having nice breaks from their work inside. Smith said he’d never noticed any of that, so maybe they didn’t really mind being on patrol.

I guess only the dogs would be able to tell us if they are happy.

I tried to interview a large black dog with plenty of white hairs in his muzzle, but he kept his head down and ignored me. He must know about the signs hung on the fence near the prison gates that read:

“DO NOT INTERACT

OR APPROACH THE

WORKING K9”

I suppose he’s trying to avoid getting in trouble for talking to me. He must not want either of us to be sent to solitary confinement for unauthorized communication.

Other prisoners I’ve spoken to love seeing the dogs. Zach Vitale constantly tells me what breed each dog is whenever we walk around the ball fields. Most residents I’ve spoken with think it’s a great program and that more dogs that are sentenced to die should get a second chance.

“When I was on death row, I felt like society was saying I was worthless and had no value,” McKinney said. “I bet those dogs felt the same way when they were confined to a small kennel at the pound after getting condemned. They might not know the seriousness of their circumstances quite like I did, but [they] probably appreciate where they are at versus where they were. I know I do.”