Still Rikers Island

The brutality towards inmates by corrections staff at Rikers Island continues in spite of the national spotlight shining blindingly on this 413 acre parcel of land that sits in the East River. Since 1932, it has been the gateway for hundreds of thousands of human lives entering our criminal justice system; some for a long time and some for a little while and some not even guilty. For this is the place where people are warehoused while the scales of justice are being balanced and while they wait they become the property of the Department of Correction. The stories of abuse abound even as reform is purported to be taking place. Here’s my written snapshot of the Island excerpted from my book “Geranium Justice”: “When one goes over the bridge to Rikers Island in East Elmhurst, Queens, you can’t help but notice the drama. The island is half the size of Central Park. Families are doing their time on the outside and waiting in long quays to see their loved ones. The self contained island stretches before you and every six hours the stench of low tide adds to the surreal colony that sits between Queens and Bronx Counties with 15,000 people living here classified in ten different buildings. This is also the flight path and within reach of LaGuardia Airport. It’s so close that the jets blow off fuel as you round the ring road to the first staging point. Before crossing the bridge over the East River you’re stopped by officers and must show your clearance. I watch the families who are dropped off at this ‘first base’ and who have to wait outdoors in all weather for buses to take them across to the Island. They are mostly the faces of women and children; the mothers, the wives, the girlfriends, their kids. You feel the intimidating and arrogant attitude of the officers who so hate their work and are serving their own time counting their days until retirement. Once over the bridge if you’re in a private car, you find a place in the huge parking lot before entering the ‘control building’ where the ordinary visitor signs in, gets searched and puts jewelry, purses, possessions in lockers before stepping on yet another bus to the individual jails. No ordinary visitor me, I drive my car to the parking area in front of ‘C-73’ avoiding the bus that goes throughout the complex. This is where the women are housed. I draw in a huge breath and pray this goes well, my first of thousands of times. Jails are strange lockups. You might say they’re the original in mixed housing. They house people who have been convicted of a crime and are awaiting transfer to state prisons, they house people who are held without bail or people who can’t make bail awaiting trial, they house people who have been convicted of crimes that carry only jail time of up to one year and they house people who have never even jay-walked in their lives. The emphasis here is on security, designating separate housing for the different classifications. Ultimately, all kinds of women over 21 live here, guilty and not guilty. I show my credentials in a heavily deodorized hall to a CO behind a teller’s window (a bubble) and the first gate opens. I sign several different visitors’ books before an escort guides me through the labyrinth of halls and bars to a place that will become my office on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”