Updates

After Christa Pike’s Botched Execution, People in Prison Have Something to Say

by Alex Friedmann, Trevor Reese, Lucretia Stone, Cesar Hernandez, Jeshua Noel, Patrick Irving, Erin Kuhn-Brown and Kory McClary, Prison Journalism Project
October 15, 2026

The failed execution of Christa Pike in Tennessee last month has thrust the death penalty, and the various flawed methods of enacting it, into the national spotlight.

The number of people killed by the state has increased every year since 2022, when 11 executions were conducted, according to the Death Penalty Information Center. In 2025, 47 people received capital punishment. So far this year, there have been 31 executions concentrated in just six states: Florida, Texas, Alabama, Arizona, Oklahoma and Tennessee.

With the rise of lethal injections in recent years, botched executions have drawn more attention. In 2022, Alabama failed to kill Alan Eugene Miller after executioners repeatedly punctured his veins with needles. Just two months later, Alabama failed again, this time with Kenneth Eugene Smith; he was killed two years later with nitrogen gas. In 2024, “vein access issues” stymied Idaho’s planned execution of Thomas Creech. And this year, Tennessee has botched not one but two killings. Before Pike, the state failed to kill Tony Carruthers.

After Pike survived, Tennessee paused all scheduled executions for this year. But the U.S. is approaching a new milestone in its history of capital punishment. The Pentagon announced tentative plans to livestream the Dec. 3 execution-by-firing squad of Nidal Hasan, who fatally shot 13 unarmed soldiers at Fort Hood.

After the news about Pike broke, Prison Journalism Project editors reached out to contributors and asked for their thoughts and stories about capital punishment.

Trevor Reese, from Louisiana, argued that the death penalty is arbitrary. Cesar Hernandez remembered how strange it was to be served uncharacteristically good food on execution day in his Texas prison. Lucretia Stone, from New Jersey, questioned whether we humans should be the ones to decide when someone lives or dies.

At least two writers, both from Tennessee, attempted to send dispatches over an e-communications platform. Both said their writings were censored. One of them was able to call an editor and dictate his reflections over the phone. The second writer said she would send her work via postal mail. PJP did not receive it by publication time, but will update this story if it arrives.

— PJP Editors

‘Don’t Be Too to Eager to Deal Out Death in Judgment’

When I was incarcerated at Riverbend Maximum Security Institution, where Christa Pike’s failed execution occurred, I met a man on death row who was receiving medical care to keep him alive until the state could execute him.

During a stint in prison in the 1990s, I befriended a former condemned prisoner who, after his sentence was changed to life, became an accomplished artist.

And I also knew and spoke with Kirk Bloodsworth, who was sentenced to death in 1985 and then exonerated a decade later.

Pike committed a horrendous crime when she murdered, along with two accomplices, Colleen Slemmer in 1995. What the state of Tennessee has subjected Pike to — two failed execution attempts that left her with severe injuries — is also horrendous.

Some people who commit heinous crimes may deserve to die. But to quote J.R.R. Tolkien: “Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement.”

— Alex Friedmann, writing from Tennessee

The Death Penalty Is Arbitrary

After I was arrested for murder at age 16, detectives searched my bedroom. They confiscated all my pocket knives, of which I had an excessive amount, and a five-page research paper I had written for 10th grade English. The paper was on capital punishment in America. I took the position that the death penalty was racially biased and fundamentally arbitrary. The detectives seemed to feel the knives and the opinions expressed in the paper were equal evidence of my depravity.

Sixteen years later, having spent half my life incarcerated and five of those incarcerated years housed in the same building with Louisiana’s death row, I still think the death penalty is racially biased and fundamentally arbitrary.

Two people were convicted of the murder of Colleen Slemmer in 1995. Only one of them, Christa Pike, was sentenced to death. Pike had to survive two lethal doses of pentobarbital, not because she was more responsible for the crime than her co-defendant and not because her actions were more heinous than the actions of her co-defendant, but because she was 18 and he was 17.

Guilt and culpability should determine a person’s fate in a court of law. Not their birthday. Otherwise we might as well sentence people according to their astrological sign. Pisces get life, Leos go free, Libras get the needle.

Like Pike, I am guilty of an atrocious crime. I killed an 8-year-old boy for no reason. My crime was heinous, inexcusable and completely my fault. Yet no one tried to kill me for it.

As I write, I am serving a life sentence. Why? Not because the boy’s death was less tragic than Slemmer’s. Not because he deserved less justice than Slemmer. Merely because I was 16.

— Trevor Reese, writing from Louisiana 

We Should Not Make the Call About Who Lives and Dies

Execution is legalized murder. It’s a performance and an act of vengeance that does not give real justice to the families or communities harmed. Before Christa Pike, I recall hearing about other cases of failed executions, and that prison officials were questioning the effectiveness of phenobarbital then. I heard of electric chair executions that failed too. Add those unconscionable mishaps to the cases of men and women who were executed before DNA testing, and were later proven innocent.

All of that further confirms for me what I hope more people will start to believe: It is not up to people to determine whether a person lives or dies; that call has always been God’s to make. At least seven needles and two insufficient doses of phenobarbital demonstrated that Christa Pike’s time is not yet up.

— Lucretia Stone, writing from New Jersey

Good Food on Execution Day

Prior to prison, I didn’t really think about the death penalty. I was only vaguely aware that Texas routinely executed people. Then I was housed inside the death row building at the Allan B. Polunsky Unit north of Houston from July 2016 to January 2022.

The first time I saw a death row prisoner, I was perplexed at how normal he seemed. All the guards seemed to be terrified of those guys. They made it seem like the men on death row were sabertooth tigers.

On death row, the lights were always on in the cells. Shaving razors were prohibited, and medications were dissolved in water.

I still vividly recall an execution day, some years ago, when we were served fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, a brownie, and a super-potent fruit punch. I remember my neighbor turned to the guard passing out the trays and asked, “So does it take a person getting killed for us to be fed good?” The guard laughed. “Pretty much,” he said.

The 40-year-old man set to be executed that day had been on death row for 20 years. It was said that he did not have a single prison disciplinary case in his file. At 12:30 p.m., on that execution day, I looked out my window and watched the caravan take him to Huntsville Unit, the prison where they perform executions in what people call “the death house.”

From March 2023 to September 2024, I was housed at Huntsville. I knew where the death house was but never glimpsed it. On execution day, our recreation yard was used as a parking lot, so everybody had to be on the wings by 2:30 p.m. No one was allowed to walk around. (Last year, I wrote about one of those disturbing days for Prison Journalism Project.)

A few years ago, I heard about an NPR investigation that examined over 300 executions. The experts determined that 84% of these people experienced pulmonary edema in their lungs when they were killed. This basically meant that they felt the sensation of drowning as they died. I now see the death penalty as torture. The money that is wasted on the death penalty process should be redirected into initiatives to better people’s lives so they don’t turn to crime in the first place.

— Cesar Hernandez, writing from Texas

When Will Her Life End? 

For now, Christa Pike is barely alive.

When my wife told me, over the phone, about her botched execution, I felt a sense of looming dread. Stories like these remind us how little control we incarcerated people have over our lives.

In the aftermath of this horrific failure, Tennessee has paused all executions until the end of the year. It is difficult to tell whether this is a responsible reaction to apparent malpractice or a savvy response to unfavorable political headwinds.

Pike’s attorneys said she awoke “angry” and confused six days after Tennessee failed to kill her. As she regains consciousness and discovers that her death-that-wasn’t has reignited a national debate about the morality of capital punishment, she must be wondering, and I am wondering too: Does her life end when the conversation stops? We hardly ever talk for long.

— Jeshua Noel, writing from Missouri

Who Should Pull the Trigger?

I’m curious to know how Tennessee obtained the pentobarbital it injected into Christa Pike. Corrections departments have struggled to procure execution chemicals for years, with most drug manufacturers refusing the sale on moral grounds, and some out of fear of public backlash. In fact, the supply problem is so fraught that states have passed secrecy laws to improve their ability to procure the drugs.

In Idaho, where I’m currently incarcerated, two former, high-ranking corrections officials reportedly scored the lethal materials used for the 2012 execution of Richard Leavitt with a suitcase full of cash in a Walmart parking lot in Tacoma, Washington. The exchange involved a pharmacist whose license was later put on probation for repeated inspection violations.

If it’s anything like here, Tennessee will fight tooth and nail to keep their supplier and testing methods secret, and then attempt to avoid future controversy by making the firing squad its primary method of execution, as Idaho has done.

Two years ago, I joined a peer-led initiative to overhaul what it means to serve time in Idaho prisons. Corrections staff and residents locked arms to change the violent, unhealthy culture that once plagued our facilities. We rely on our ability to create psychological safety, practice inclusion and inspire hope.

But following the failed 2024 execution of Thomas Creech, Idaho legislators successfully voted to prioritize the firing squad during executions. As the state prepares to shoot our most wayward to death, I feel a gaping wound opening in our collective conscience — threatening the improvements we’ve made to the corrections culture here. I think the lawmakers and prosecutors who pursue the death penalty should be the ones to pull the trigger.

— Patrick Irving, writing from Idaho

Death Is Final — Except in Tennessee

Horror: That was my initial reaction to Tennessee failing to execute Christa Pike.

Pike was 18 when she committed this crime and has spent 30 years on death row. Hours before her scheduled execution, a federal appeals court paused it to consider new evidence: Tennessee had conceded that Pike was a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and rape, and that she had untreated bipolar disorder and PTSD at the time of the crime.

The Supreme Court lifted that pause without explanation. In dissent, Justice Sonia Sotomayor wrote, “I see no reason to shortcircuit the ordinary process of appellate review, particularly in light of the grave consequences of an erroneous decision.”

Why the hurry? After 30 years, what was another week?

Death is supposed to be final — except, it seems, in the Tennessee Department of Correction. Pike should not have to endure another execution test run.

— Erin Kuhn-Brown, writing from Nevada

Worthy of Living

The state of Tennessee and the larger United States of America are hypocritical. With the botched killing of Christa Pike, Tennessee inflicted catastrophic harm while claiming to administer a humane punishment. Their attempt to murder Christa Pike failed. For days afterward, she lived on life support. The system believed her crime worthy of death, but since they botched her murder, I believe she’s worthy of life.

— Kory McClary, writing from New Jersey

This article first appeared on Prison Journalism Project and is republished here under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Supreme Court Deals Body Blow to Prisoners Religious Protections: Landor v. Louisiana Department of Corrections

by David J. Meister

Damon Landor is a practitioner of the Rastafarian religion and decades-long adherent to the Nazarite Vow which requires him to “let the locks of his head grow.” Holy Bible, Numbers 6:5 (King James Version).

In 2020, Landor was incarcerated for a felony in the State of Louisiana. After spending several months housed at two prison facilities where officials permitted Landor’s knee-length hair without incident, Landor was transferred to a third facility where guards insisted on enforcing its grooming policy.

Anticipating this problem, Landor presented them with a copy of Ware v. LDOC, 866 F.3d 263 (5th Cir. 2017), in which the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals held that requiring a Rastafarian inmate to cut his hair might violate Federal law.

Prison guards responded by throwing the case in the trash, restraining Landor in a chair with handcuffs, and forcibly shaving his head.

Landor subsequently filed a lawsuit against the Louisiana Department of Corrections (LDOC) and the guards in their official as well as personal capacities, claiming that, among other theories, Landor’s rights were violated under the Religious Land Use and Institutionalized Persons Act. 42 U.S.C §2000cc, et seq. The RLUIPA provides in part that “[a] person” who suffers a violation of the statute may “assert” the violation “as a claim or defense in a judicial proceeding and obtain appropriate relief against the government.” §§2000cc-2(a), 1(c). The “government” in this instance includes an “official” of the relevant State and any “other person acting under color of State law.” Id.

Unfortunately, Landor already had one hand tied behind his back by the Supreme Court when it previously decided that the RLUIPA, despite its plain language, does not provide a cause of action for money damages against State agencies like LDOC. Sossamon v. Texas, 536 U.S. 277 (2011) (discussing Sovereign Immunity).

Injunctive relief remained available against LDOC and defendants’ official capacities to correct grooming policy, but those claims were mooted when Landor was released from prison and LDOC lost custody. What remained was his claim for money damages against the personal capacity of defendant guards who cut his hair.

It’s not a question that the guards violated Landor’s religious rights—they did. The question was whether Landor had a remedy in law to address the wrong.

On June 23, 2026, the Supreme Court held that Landor does not, neatly tying Landor’s remaining hand behind his back before kicking his case out of court. See Landor v. La. Dep’t of Corr. & Pub. Safety, 2026 U.S. LEXIS 2717.

The Landor decision illustrates a long-running contention between Congress (who would expand religious freedoms) and the Supreme Court (who would narrow them).

In one of a retinue of earlier cases applying similar logic, the Court created an abridgment to Constitutional protections when it held prison officials may infringe upon prisoners’ First Amendment rights, provided there’s a rational and neutral reason for the regulation. Turner v. Safley, 482 U.S. 78, 89 (1987).

Under this standard, it does not matter “whether the policy in fact advances the [government’s] legitimate interest.” Courts must afford due deference by considering only whether prison officials “might reasonably have thought that the policy would advance [the prison’s] interest.” Mauro v. Arpaio, 188 F.3d 1054, 1060 (9th Cir. 1999) (en banc).

Applying this highly deferential standard, for example, and in the lower levels of the instant case, the District Court dismissed Landor’s First Amendment claim on the basis that LDOC offered a rational interest in its grooming policy requiring Rastafarian inmates to cut their hair. Landor v. La. Dep’t of Corr. & Pub. Safety, 2022 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 176894, at *3-4 (M.D. La. Sept. 29, 2022).

The District Court relied on Scott v. Miss. Dep’t of Corr., 961 F.2d 77, 80 (5th Cir. 1992), which held that officials have a legitimate interest in imposing short hair to more easily identify inmates because longer hair can be styled to alter an inmate’s appearance. In the face of this rational policy, it makes no difference that longer hair styles have not in fact impeded legitimate penological objectives in identifying inmates.

In a seminal case defending this type of declension in religious protections, the Supreme Court held that the First Amendment does not carve out religious exemptions from neutral and generally applicable laws even when the laws are unsupported by a narrowly tailored, compelling governmental interest, and invited Congress to legislate greater protections if it chooses to. Employment Div., Dep’t of Human Resources of Ore. v. Smith, 494 U.S. 872, 878-882 (1990).

In response, Congress sought to expand religious protection by passing the Religious Freedom Restoration Act, which forbade States and the Federal Government alike from substantially burdening religious exercise without compelling interest while using least restrictive methods. 42 U.S.C. §2000bb, et seq.

The Supreme Court upheld the RFRA as applied to the Federal Government but struck it down as applied to the States as exceeding Congress’s power under Section 5 of the Fourteenth Amendment. City of Boerne v. Flores, 521 U.S. 507 (1997).

Congress came back with RLUIPA, using statutory language identical to RFRA, but pinning its authority to the Spending Clause of the U.S. Constitution. Art. I, §8, cl. 1. Since all 50 States receive Federal money, the Supreme Court upheld RLUIPA’s expanded religious protections as applied to the States under the Spending Clause. Cutter v. Wilkinson, 544 U.S. 709 (2005).

In 2020, the Supreme Court determined the “appropriate relief” provision of the RFRA included money damages against government officials in their personal capacities. Tanzin v. Tanvir, 592 U.S. 53 (2020). The identical phrase in RLUIPA presumptively would as well, but the Supreme Court pumped the brakes.

Rather, the Supreme Court disregarded the necessary corollary and conjured a new principle while distinguishing the RFRA from the RLUIPA: “Spending Clause legislation may not make anybody liable without their express consent. And because prison officials (as opposed to their state-prison employers) have not directly accepted federal funds, they have not consented to being sanctioned for their failure to follow federal law.” Landor, 2026 U.S. LEXIS 2717, at *38 (Jackson, J., dissenting).

In coming to that conclusion, the Court glossed over myriad laws imposed on the States via Spending Clause powers such as the Clean Air Act that creates liability for individual officials who pollute the air. Id. at *56-57.

In those circumstances, agents of the State voluntarily seek its employment and wield its power, and therefore submit themselves to sanction when they misuse that position. The contrary Landor decision denigrates that rule, and, further, casts a shadow on its precedents.

The ball is officially back in Congress’s court, should it choose to swing at it and enact the protections it originally envisioned. Id. at *38, n.5.

In the meantime, the First Amendment may provide relief in theory, but in practice it offers virtually no protection to religious expression behind bars. And as things stand under RLUIPA, “appropriate relief” from government trespass on religious freedoms may mean no relief at all.

The Most Current Commissary Pricelist for Idaho Prisons. But Not Really!

I recently submitted three separate public records requests for the current commissary pricelist for Idaho prisons. The Idaho Department of Correction (IDOC) responded to all three requests with the pricelist shared below.

The problem is, it doesn’t reflect the prices Idaho prisoners are currently paying.

I compared the cost of food, clothing, hygiene, electronics and other items on this list with what I am being charged at the Idaho State Correctional Institution. I found that I am paying an average of 2.5% more than the prices shown here (tax excluded).

Were I to guess the reason for this discrepancy, I would say the IDOC neglected to update its records when The Keefe Group increased Idaho commissary prices in May (and did it without notifying the resident population, as it’s contractually obligated to).

Innocent mistake or concentrated f***ery? I’ll let you decide.

Note:

IDOC residents can order up to $120 in food, hygiene and other miscellaneous items every week. There is no dollar limit on the amount of property items they can order.

In addition to their regular, weekly orders, residents and their supporters can also place specialty* orders through Access Securepak, not to exceed $200 per quarter.

Online: Accesssecurepak.com
Phone: 1.636.88.7003 / 1.800.546.6283
Mail: Access Securepak (ID), PO Box 50028, Sparks, NV 89435

*Some package items are available at lower prices through the commissary

Commissary Items (Property)

Commissary Items (Consumables)

Disciplinary Offense Report (DOR) Restrictions

I Advocated for a Return of My Prison’s Recreation Programs. Then I Was Transferred.

by David J. Meister, Prison Journalism Project
August 4, 2026

The recreation department used to be the center of life at Idaho State Correctional Institution. People could learn to paint or woodwork in the hobby shop. Musicians could jam with their bands in the music room. And athletes could compete in intramural sports leagues.

The department fostered a healthy community by keeping incarcerated people engaged in activities that supported their physical and mental health.

My early experiences with the recreation department embodied this mission. Soon after my arrival in 2016, I was hired to create murals for a facility-wide beautification project. Eventually my paintings of songbirds and deer were all over the yard and even in the central offices of the Idaho Department of Corrections.

The paintings were a point of pride for the department. I was part of their tours and touted as credible proof of the rehabilitation happening inside state prisons.

But that was before COVID-19 swept through the prison in 2020, halting programming and community life. The reopening efforts that followed were delayed and haphazard. When I began to advocate for their robust return, my status as a celebrated member of the corrections community ended too.

A new system of isolation

The COVID rupture was compounded by the 2021 arrival of a new administration, which had to immediately manage the acute staff shortages and health complications. In an interview, Ryan Mortensen, an IDOC spokesperson, told a Prison Journalism Project editor that staffing issues and COVID led to the decline of programming.

“Those adjustments are common in correctional settings where you have to cut back and restrict a little bit,” Mortensen said.

Recreation was hit particularly hard. Throughout 2022, the department was frequently closed and understaffed. When I approached a recreation sergeant about doing a sports tournament or league, like we used to do, he said, “We’re not doing any of that shit.”

Without a robust recreation department, conditions at ISCI worsened. People were increasingly confined in close quarters, sometimes for over 20 hours a day. Tempers flared, fights became more frequent and goodwill between staff and prisoners dissolved.

At the same time, valuable institutional knowledge was lost, making it harder to maintain operations that were allowed to reopen. Frequent staff turnover meant the officers assigned to recreation didn’t know the bleachers needed to be maintained, the courts resurfaced or the dozens of other necessities tied to running a recreation center.

One step forward, two steps back

In July 2022, I took a clerk position in hopes that I could advocate for and help return the department to its pre-COVID standard. Most importantly, I used my new position and expertise to advocate for a return to pre-COVID programming.

For a while, it worked. While there was still no support for opening the hobby shop, intramural sports or music room, I was permitted to coordinate a total of 13 holiday tournaments in 2024. This was a fraction of the 60 to 70 events we’d once hosted annually, but it felt like a win. And there were other hopeful signs. After ISCI administration changed again in mid-2025, the new warden and two new deputy wardens spoke publicly about restoring programs.

But eventually progress stalled. Tournaments were hobbled with new restrictions. The hobby shop was officially terminated and demolished. The music room was converted to storage space.

Then, at a town hall forum in July 2025, recreation leadership announced intramural sports would not be returning.

This was a blow. I knew we could do more with the resources we had at hand if we were only allowed to. But, once programming was cut, I found there was little institutional dedication to returning to the levels available pre-COVID, the kind that had fostered a healthier, more vibrant community life.

A retaliatory transfer?

Myself and others began making noise. Dozens of people incarcerated at ISCI submitted concern forms, to no avail. I filed requests with the administration, sent letters to IDOC officials, and took the fight public by starting a blog at MeisterArchive.com. “Programs produce peace, isolation breeds chaos,” I wrote on a department request form to ISCI’s new deputy warden of security.

By advocating so strongly for recreation, I knew I was making myself a target for ISCI administrators who then seemed to prefer lockdowns to programs.

Sure enough, in the summer of 2025 I received two separate warnings from staff to stop making waves. Then, in a move I strongly believe was intended to undermine my advocacy, I was suddenly put on a 26-hour bus transport from Idaho to a private prison in Arizona on Sept. 9, 2025.

In the interview with a PJP editor, Mortensen said the department is currently operating “at a little over capacity,” and thus relying on various local and out-of-state facilities to house prisoners. He said the transfer was based on institutional needs, security classification and my sentence length. In part because I am serving a life-without-parole sentence, Mortensen said “it made sense for that move to take place.”

I had been put on the transfer list before, but I had always been removed due to my specialized position working on the murals or in recreation.

This time, though, interventions from recreation staff did nothing. The administration seemed determined that the transfer would go ahead.

Mortensen denied that my position would be grounds for a transfer stay.

The price of change

From my remote cell in Arizona, I continued to protest. I posted on social media, sent letters to Idaho officials about the declining conditions at ISCI and mailed leaflets encouraging incarcerated people at ISCI to press for reforms.

On Feb. 5, 2026, I received a communication from the ISCI warden, assuring me that increased access to gym programming was a priority for prison administration.

As of April, true to his word, the warden widened recreation access. The music room was rebuilt; it’s slated to open soon. An intramural basketball season is already in progress.

This is a great sign, but the price I paid feels like a warning. In the past, ISCI administrators worked with incarcerated people to support and build their programs. Now it seems you have to choose between staying silent or speaking out as conditions worsen, knowing it might mean a one-way bus ride to Arizona.

This article first appeared on Prison Journalism Project and is republished here under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

A Speech Delivered by C. Campbell at Pillars’ July Graduation Ceremony

C. Campbell is one of 15 Idaho State Correctional Institution residents who recently completed Pillars peer-mentor training. On July 15, 2026, at a graduation ceremony in the prison chapel, he spoke to a room of prison staff, peer mentors and their visitors. This is what he said.

[Edited for length and clarity.]

Hey everyone, my name is C.J., though some of you may know me as Gideon. When I was asked to come up here and speak before you all, my initial thought was, “Well, that’s a terrible idea. I’m terrified of public speaking and have a tendency to talk way too much.”

But that’s one of the beautiful facets of the Pillars initiative; it affords us the space to venture out of our comfort zone and grow. And maybe, if I’m terrified as hell to be up here, yet here I am, shaking and getting through it, speaking on something I truly believe in, then, just maybe, it will inspire someone else to let their voice be heard in a powerful way, and they could inspire someone else and so forth, until I have engendered a change far beyond my purview.

So in the next 20 years or so, when an individual is winning a Pulitzer for their awesome speech-writing, I’ll let out a little smile and tell myself, “I did that.”

You know, my upbringing cultivated in me a belief that Life makes you pay for every victory that you gain. It made me weary of success, afraid of love, and terrified of happiness. I grew up around drugs, alcohol, sexual and physical abuse, and blind hatred. Some of the images from my past that haunt me will stay imprinted in my mind until the day I die. To this day, I carry with me traumas that I still can’t speak on, that I’m terrified of sharing with anyone else.

Nevertheless, I credit my childhood with showing me three valuable things, which I remember coming to own while sitting in my seventh-grade principal’s office. My friend Richard and I had been caught stealing items around the school that could be used as drug paraphernalia. I remember sitting before the principal pleading, not for myself but for him to show Richard mercy. I explained how both Richard’s sister and brother died at the age of 18. He had no mother to speak of and barely knew and spoke to his father. He had pushed away almost everyone who tried to care for him or get close. All he had was me.

Richard made the poor choices because he couldn’t afford the better ones.

Thinking I could make a case for my friend to not be expelled, I claimed that Richard’s rough life was to blame for the reasons he did the things he did. But what I wasn’t anticipating was that the principal personally knew my family and, along with them, my story.

He pointed out that I, too, had had a rough life, yet I didn’t go down the same paths as Richard. He said I was mostly a good kid who rose above my adversities and didn’t allow my circumstances to define my situation in life.

“Why do you think that is?” he said.

Without giving it so much as a thought, I said, “The life I’ve lived and the things I’ve seen have shown me who I don’t want to be, what kind of life I don’t want to live and what kind of world I want to live in.”

After saying it, I sat there in a pregnant silence, repeating my own words and wondering what the hell made me say them.

The principal quietly let it sink in: my actions were not matching the life I wanted for myself.

I was dismissed without any punishment; but a ripple had already shifted the reality of my core.

From that moment on, I knew I wanted to make a difference and help to change the lives of others, instead of just watching them pass me by. But how? At 13 years old, I had a destination and a mission statement–but I lacked knowledge and direction and resources.

And so I wandered through life the best I could, doing things that I thought would help others and fulfill my youthful vision. But apparently my vision was clouded, because what I didn’t see then was that I was doing those things for myself. Doing them for my own pride. For the wrong reasons. Wandering aimlessly.

Being part of the Pillars initiative, I have since found that missing direction. Never before have I experienced such a perfect fit for the lifestyle I’m living and the dream I want to accomplish. I stand up here today because our shared vision as mentors is something I not only vehemently stand behind, but am also proud to stand for; to build a community of unity, growth and positivity, if I may sum it up in my own short words.

But why stop within these walls?

I ask, what is legacy? Phenom Lin-Manuel Miranda wrote it perfectly in a song for the hit Broadway musical Hamilton: “What is legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.” We aren’t making these change for ourselves. We are making them for those who come after us. Not just for those who lose their way and for those whose struggle to find one lands them here, but for anyone who has ever wanted something better for themselves. We are embracing the next generation by laying blueprints for a better future. The foundation that we are building, those of us here in this room, grows stronger with each person we touch and inspire–each time we show another the way.

He’s probably getting tired of me quoting him by now, but I once heard a truly great man say something seemingly small, not even directly to me, but it impacted me to the very core: “We are in the business of ripples.” Thank you, Patrick, for creating such an incredible ripple in my life, because that has been the key to me finding my direction, the catalyst that is now propelling me to the man I want to be and have wanted to be since the seventh grade.

My grandmother always taught me to pay it forward. And at her memorial service, I vowed to continue that belief and live it. And now, because of the mentors in my life who have welcomed me as family and helped to guide me along in my journey, I feel like I can finally, truly, honor that promise–honor my grandma’s legacy.

That’s what this initiative has done for me, what I hope it does for each of you, and for everyone who comes after us.

I wish to close by encouraging everyone here in this room to start big, start small, be it today, tomorrow or the day after–be the force of positive change in someone else’s life. Start a ripple and create with me the motions that will effect those around us and beyond.

A few brave immigrants once traveled across an ocean and created a nation that has now survived 250 years. Let us see what kind of world we, too, can create by daring to be different and challenging the status quo.

It starts with a ripple. It starts with you. It starts with us. And it starts now.

To the next 250 years, to the Pillars initiative, and to those who come next.

Thank you.

Arizona Prison Healthcare Enters Era of Court-Ordered Rehab

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

By David J. Meister
June 27, 2026

After 14 years of continual litigation, a federal judge has finally ordered the takeover of medical services in Arizona State Prisons.

The United States District Court for the District of Arizona addressed unconstitutionally deficient medical care for prisoners in the State of Arizona, ordering experts to conduct an evaluation and file a report. Experts found Arizona “substantially non-compliant” and that State officials’ efforts to self-assess were “totally unreliable.” The experts provided a written, detailed discussion of the specific deficiencies, and included comprehensive medical evaluations conducted by auditors of some patients, finding the patients had received very poor medical treatment.

District Judge Roslyn Silver said it bluntly, the prison healthcare system is, quote, “AN INTOLERABLE GRAVE AND IMMEDIATE THREAT OF CONTINUING HARM AND SUFFERING because the systemic deficiencies pervade the administration of health care.” See Jensen v. Thornell, 2026 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 33723, at *16 (D. Arizona Feb. 19, 2026).

Much the same can be said of systems from Pennsylvania to California where prison healthcare is increasingly taken into court-ordered receivership across the nation. See, e.g., Plata v. Schwarzenegger, 2005 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 43796 (N.D. Cal. Oct. 3, 2005). Yet relief comes only after decades of suffering and litigation, if it comes at all.

In a famous example of protracted litigation for little reward, medical services at the Idaho State Correctional Institution were under court scrutiny for over 35 years, until the court finally deemed constitutional minimums satisfied, “but barely so.” Balla v. Idaho, 2020 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 95915, at *5 (D. Idaho May 30, 2020). At no point in that case’s lengthy history were prison officials or medical providers subject to significant monetary sanctions. When the court subsequently relinquished control, the Idaho prison immediately backslid. A monetary cudgel may have shortened that case by 30 years and ended in permanent improvements.

Returning to the instant case, a private profiteer—Arizona’s NaphCare—has already been operating with impunity during a 14-year period, heedless of court oversight. Apparently, in the face of billion-dollar contracts, they’ll assume the risk of offending a judge or two.

Laudable as Judge Silver’s intentions are, perhaps the solution to Arizona’s failing prison healthcare lies not in rehabilitating a faulty system that has no will to change, but in finally holding the culprit officials and corporations financially responsible. Perhaps they will care about their money—because they certainly don’t care about the inmates’ healthcare.

What the Job of a Reentry Navigator Is Like

by James Mancuso, Prison Journalism Project
June 9, 2026

Payton Tucker can usually be found trying to track down incarcerated people at South Idaho Correctional Institution, a minimum custody facility, or working through her list of one-on-one visits at the nearby medium custody Idaho State Correctional Institution.

She always seems to have a smile on her face, and works tirelessly to help people prepare for reentry. Tucker’s job is of great importance. U.S. Department of Justice statistics show that about 95% of people are expected to return home from state prisons at some point. But they often encounter significant barriers to finding housing, jobs or important social safety nets that will prevent them from returning to prison.

Even though almost everyone comes home, about 71% of people return to prison within five years of leaving, according to the last widespread study conducted by the U.S. Bureau of Justice Statistics in 2012.

As a reentry navigator with the nonprofit Society of St. Vincent de Paul Southwest Idaho, Tucker speaks to each incarcerated person she works with to learn their needs. She helps people find job openings, housing, social services and helpful programs or classes they can access, among other things. Tucker said she takes a holistic approach to a person’s transition from prison to society.

“Nearly every person that experiences incarceration is going to be someone’s neighbor,” Tucker told me during an interview in February, at her desk in the back of the prison’s graphics shop.

A formative time

In seventh grade, Tucker was living in Hawaii and had her whole life planned out. She was going to be a doctor. Then, in high school, she saw a gruesome video of a basketball player’s shinbone compound fracture and changed her mind.

Midway through high school, Tucker and her family moved to Idaho, where she finished high school. Being a bit of a bookworm, Tucker liked to read about all the different places she could live. She decided to move to New York City for college and major in teaching.

“I was nervous until I got off the plane in New York, then I felt like I was at the place I was meant to be,” she said.

During college, Tucker joined a homeless outreach group, where she became a student leader. “That struck a chord within me,” Tucker said.

After college, Tucker returned to Idaho and began working for a Waldorf education-based school. The Waldorf methodology was built around the physiological and psychological stages of child development. She taught seventh grade in a system that had little to no technology. All her exhibits and notes were drawn on a chalkboard or on large pieces of paper to be hung on the classroom walls. They’d start the day with meditative chants together, and experience lessons in the form of storytelling and hands-on learning.

Over time, her interest in teaching waned. Tucker often felt like she was doing more paperwork than face-to-face teaching. She wanted to sit across from someone, not stare at her laptop.

A couple years ago, Tucker volunteered for Cookies for Corrections, a local program where St. Vincent de Paul volunteers pass out cookies and holiday cheer to residents during the Christmas season.

“I walked away feeling like I wanted to come back and bring light to their day,” she said.

A dream job

In 2025, just as Tucker decided to move on from teaching, the reentry navigator job with St. Vincent de Paul Southwest Idaho opened. She was hired in April of that year.

“I’m grateful to be part of the team because they are such a loving and dedicated group of people,” Tucker said. “We’re a perfect puzzle of people.”

When asked what she dislikes about the job, she said, “There are so many people who need our help yet so few resources to offer them.”

As a reentry navigator, Tucker’s job is to find out what incarcerated people need to be successful when returning to society.

Tucker leans heavily on her storytelling and teaching background when she helps people draft resumes, cover letters and find substance abuse or mental health counseling. If the person needs a ride to get to and from appointments, she’ll figure that out too.

“Every [prisoner ID] number is attached to a real live human being,” Tucker said. “I need to sit with them face-to-face and open my heart up so I can really listen to what they need, not just hear the words they say. We can then come up with a plan tailored to them, which will give them a better opportunity to be successful upon their release.”

Chris Carter, who’s detained at Idaho State Correctional Institution, said Tucker has been great to work with as he navigates his upcoming release.

“She really listens to you and will explore a bunch of different options until you find something that feels right to you,” Carter said.

‘Every story matters’

Jim McGahey, the inmate workforce development coordinator for Idaho Correctional Industries at the prison, said Tucker is good at her job because she has “developed a network of resources and understands how to utilize that network.”

“Recently she’s been working with an inmate that has done 30 years,” McGahey said. “He had no outside support. Payton crafted and built around him a network of support so that the guy is now getting out with people to pick him up, housing, job opportunities and four different phone numbers of people out in the community that can help him.”

Reentry isn’t easy. It’s important to have someone like Tucker to listen to our stories and help that transition be as seamless as possible. It’s her enthusiasm, her kind words and genuine compassion that are felt the most.

“It’s important to operate from a space in which you understand that everyone has a story and that every story matters,” Tucker said.

This article first appeared on Prison Journalism Project and is republished here under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Hopelessness: Another Idaho Inmate Death in Arizona

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

By David J. Meister

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this . . . ,” Adam said.

“I had a good job in E- and G-Block. I was doing great. Staff loved me, but said they couldn’t do anything to stop the move.”

My cellmate Adam told me words to that effect in the days before he died.

Previously he’d been housed in the medium-security workers’ wing, E- and G-Block, of the Idaho Maximum Security Institution (IMSI). There, Adam had purpose, consistency, and frequent family visits. He was a model inmate, productively paying his debt to society. Then all was upended when Adam was unexpectedly shipped to a facility in Arizona.

The Saguaro Correctional Center in Eloy, Arizona, is a private prison owned by CoreCivic, formerly the Corrections Corporation of America (CCA), which has faced years of litigation, investigations, and criticism over understaffing, inmate safety, and conditions of confinement. The business model didn’t change with the new name, however; and in my experience, Saguaro exemplifies the shortcomings CoreCivic/CCA is notorious for.

Related reporting on CoreCivic lawsuits and safety allegations

Adam was my friend. We met in 2018 and worked together for a number of years at the Idaho State Correctional Institution. In 2022, he was transferred to IMSI. I’d heard Adam found a comfortable groove there, but later went out-of-state in 2023.

In September 2025, I too was shipped to Arizona, and was happy to see Adam’s friendly face when I arrived at Saguaro.

In early May 2026, he lost his cellmate and moved in with me rather than get a random person who might not be compatible.

In the afternoon of May 23, I returned to our cell and found Adam’s body.

I reported the apparent suicide and was promptly restrained and isolated in a holding cage in Segregation until police interviewed me later that night.

“Did Adam give any indication . . . ?”

Yes, Adam Sought Help—He Didn’t Get It

Saguaro fronts as a medium-security facility, boasting many programs to engage its inmates. In reality, the programs are puffed up for PR, and are either superficial or offered only to a few eligible inmates. For the majority of prisoners, out-of-unit opportunity is scarce, by design.

Saguaro actually operates like a maximum-security facility, isolating inmates on housing tiers, providing little recreation beyond an outdoor basketball court, and offering few meaningful jobs or educational opportunities. The climate is hostile; staff are disrespectful. And Idaho inmates are forced to wear the aggressive orange scrubs usually reserved for jail detainees and higher-custody inmates, not medium-custody prisoners under rehabilitation.

Adam never found a groove here, and in the weeks leading up to his death he was noticeably restless and listless.

On May 21, Adam tried to reach out by talking to mental-health staff. He didn’t divulge details of those meetings other than that his antidepressants weren’t working. Presumably he didn’t admit to suicidal ideation, or he’d have been taken to the Hole.

Such inmates are isolated in suicide-prevention cells without property of any kind and are kept naked except for a “turtle suit” (an indestructible smock), for days or weeks until they say the urge to commit suicide has passed. A powerful disincentive for suicidal inmates to be honest.

Adam mentioned a desire to return to the Behavioral Health Unit (BHU), which houses mentally ill inmates and provides a greater degree of care than the general population. However, the BHU is at the Idaho State Correctional Institution, and placement there is categorically denied to the 900 Idaho inmates currently housed in Arizona.

His last effort was to submit an electronic communication to Idaho Contract Monitor Klinton Hust, who is responsible for out-of-state placements. Adam explained his deteriorating mental state, lack of outlets, and pleaded for transport back to Idaho.

On May 22, Hust responded that there was no pathway back to Idaho, and Adam would remain in Arizona indefinitely.

Hust’s final denial, I believe, was determinative in Adam’s choice to end his life.

Adam brought up Hust the afternoon of May 23 in a brief moment while Adam and I waited together for our tier to be called for lunch. I counselled Adam to keep an open mind; a way home might open by unforeseen circumstances.

But at that point, Adam likely had already made a plan for leaving Saguaro on his terms.

After lunch, I settled at a day-room table to work on a project, allowing Adam the cell to himself for the rest of the afternoon.

He covered the cell window with a towel, the usual sign an inmate is using the toilet.

A half hour later, I noticed the towel was still up, and I started getting nervous.

Several times the two correctional officers working the tier passed the cell, and I hoped they would knock on the cell door, but they did not.

(Both officers were later fired. Inside sources say the termination resulted from their failure to conduct mandatory welfare checks.)

The towel remained up, and I had a sinking feeling.

I didn’t want to see Adam’s corpse—the image of a violent inmate-on-inmate murder I witnessed in 2021 plays behind my eyes to this day.

Related: “I Killed My Cellmate: Exposing the Mental Health Crisis in Prisons”

Still, someone had to check, so I did.

I knocked loudly twice, and at no response I slowly cracked open the door.

I peeked in enough to see Adam on the floor, and the floor covered in blood.

Later I learned he cut an artery in his thigh.

Insult to Injury

At 3:00 in the morning I was let out of the Hole and placed in a temporary cell.

Adam’s body had been removed and Saguaro staff had finished the first round of cleanup.

I was escorted and allowed to retrieve a few toiletries and a blanket from the cell. I noticed many items of property missing, discarded for blood contamination.

What stood out was that some officer had balled up a piece of artwork Adam had prized.

Why?

A few hours later a team of senior Saguaro staff came in force and searched the cell, removing Adam’s remaining property.

Eventually I was returned to the cell—my property had been trashed in the search.

Pictures torn from the wall, papers disheveled and crumpled, several personal items stolen by staff.

I wasn’t surprised; I’ve been housed in three CoreCivic/CCA facilities, and that company’s earned its poor reputation.

I picked up the pieces.

The stench of blood is strong.

Fellow inmates stopped by to give condolences, and a few brought cleaning supplies.

I set about cleaning up leftover blood, from the floor, the walls, and my things.

Déjà vu.

When I first entered this cell in early September 2025, it smelled of blood then too. I cleaned flecks spattered everywhere from a murder that occurred there less than two weeks before.

Related reporting on the August 2025 Saguaro killing

There is no sense, no moral, no triumph over adversity here.

Just tragedy, hopelessness.

I’ll miss you Adam.

Bless the shovels and brushes that bring light to buried voices

Over 200 people Tuesday evening attended a virtual ceremony over Zoom for the third annual Stillwater Awards. I was able to tune in with my dad, thanks to my prison’s video-visit technology. (Pops pulled up the ceremony on a second device and aimed me in its direction.)

As the screen filled up with faces of journalists, journalism educators and supporters of the finalists, I unsuccessfully searched for others viewing from prison. (Possibly they were hiding in the sea of black boxes used to protect attendees’ privacy.)

Several times during the ceremony, my video visit cut out, forcing me to log out and back into the visiting app.

Thankfully, the visit stayed connected when my submission for the Best Op-Ed category took third place!

After the announcers read the judges’ comments and a statement that I prepared, they asked if anyone in the audience wished to speak on my behalf.

Pops and I both got a little emotional as he chimed in, thanking everyone involved in producing the awards and two of my biggest supporters, who were also in the audience. (Sadly, multiple finalists received awards without anyone to speak for them.)

Towards the end of the ceremony, in what I viewed as the evening’s highlight, the staff of the Mabel Bassett Balance, incarcerated at the Mabel Bassett Correctional Center in McLoud, Oklahoma, appeared on screen to receive an award for their publication. In true rock star fashion, after realizing that their sound wasn’t working, they all formed hearts with their hands and broadcast their love to the crowd.

Thanks to everyone who participated in the third annual Stillwater Awards!

Support prison artists and writers by sharing any of the following links:

“PJP Writers on Their Award-Winning Stories About Life Behind Bars.”

Homestead Happenings – “2026 STILLWATER AWARDS”

Society of Professional Journalists – “Stillwater Awards, 2025 Winners”