horrific abuses at rj donovan correctional facility

kill the police unions

it sits pretty much on the border of mexico. i could see the tijuana lights from the yard. i landed there after several years at corcoran/satf (where i ended up meeting charles manson). after over a decade of being incarcerated on level four yards, i had temporarily qualified for a level 3 yard. i had done just enough time without incident to earn what’s called a “level 3 override”. a supposed privilege given to level 4 inmates (level 4 is the highest security before u just get placed in solitary) who stay clean for a year. i was eligible. but i wasn’t trying to be clean. not really. almost immediately after arriving, i got caught with back-to-back cell phones, and just like that, they shipped me off to the level 4 yard. but donovan wasn’t just another prison. it was a different kind of hell.

level 3 yards are looser, more relaxed, with less security. but the moment you slip, even once, they send u right back to the concrete coffin of level 4. and i slipped. that level of freedom almost came as a shock to me because i was so institutionalized by max facility yards that i functioned way different. maybe i was already neck-deep in it. donovan was infamous for being flooded with drugs and phones. it was an open secret. everyone knew. guards knew. administrators knew. that place thrived on access. access to contraband, corruption, and cruelty.

one day, while fucking around on instagram in the cell, i heard the unmistakable jingle of keys and boots. a cell search. unannounced. the cops cracked the door open with their gloves already on. i had a decent stash of drugs sitting right on the locker. i snatched it before they saw, stuffed it into my waistband. as one of them turned me around to search, i panicked and shoved the bag which was wrapped in thin plastic, into my mouth and swallowed it whole. they patted me down, found the phone (that they sold me days ago for 450$ 🤣), and left.

back in the cell, panic hit me hard. i knew my stomach acid would eventually eat through the plastic. i knew what was in that bag. i knew how much. i tried to make myself throw up, jamming a toothbrush down my throat, swallowing shampoo and some cleaning solution. anything. i kept gagging, praying, sweating, until finally i vomited it all out. i don’t know how close i came to dying, but it was close enough. they wrote me up again. more violations. and so i was sent to the level four yard at that facility right where they wanted me.

donovan’s level 4 wasn’t just some overhyped disciplinary yard. it was a shitshow run by lazy, entitled correctional officers whose only real energy came from brutality. i had heard about it before i got there. we all had. rumors of guards stomping people out. at some point, u stop calling it abuse. it’s just the way it is. file a grievance? pointless. the only response was punishment: back-to-back cell searches where they’d trash your shit, pour out your food, steal your pictures, your legal work, your sense of peace. mail would vanish. books never came. packages were “lost.” visits? blocked without explanation. phone calls? mysteriously dropped mid-conversation. it was a slow, targeted psychological lynching meant to break u in increments. and they did it because no one stopped them.

what made donovan different wasn’t just the violence. it was how casual it all was. the incompetence was institutional. the administration was a joke. grievance coordinators would literally hand your paperwork to the same staff you were reporting. hearings were kangaroo courts. rules changed depending on the shift. and the guards? half of them came in high, drunk, or dragging themselves through a hangover from the night before in san diego’s club scene. u could smell the tequila thru their tactical vests. they weren’t there to maintain order. they were there to dominate. to remind u that u were nothing. that they could do anything. and the state would protect them.

donovan wasn’t just violent. it was depraved. and that depravity had a badge.

and when covid hit? that place turned apocalyptic.

the virus moved fast. they locked us down in our cells but didn’t stop transferring people in from other facilities. many already sick. they claimed to be taking precautions, but it was all theater. a lazy performance to justify their hazard pay while leaving us to rot. when i caught covid the first time, it was early. nobody really knew what it was. i just knew my body felt wrong. off. by day four, i was sure i was going to die. i didn’t call home. didn’t want to scare my mom. i held out as long as i could, but eventually i went to medical. that’s how desperate i was. the nurse took my temperature and just stared. said something to her colleague. next thing i knew, an ambulance was called. i don’t know what my temp was, but it must have been near the top of the scale. and then, as suddenly as it came, it passed. but that wasn’t the last time. i caught covid again later, like many of us did. some never recovered. some never woke up.

people were dying in their cells, left there for days before anyone checked. it made the local news. bodies being discovered long after they had already begun to decay. men who should’ve lived, elders who still had hope. they died because no one gave a fuck.

during this time, i worked in the canteen, one of the most coveted jobs in prison. but don’t let that title fool you. it was a hustle. the canteen was its own little black market economy. people would pay us with drugs, food, whatever they had to get to the front of the line. we were supposed to be on quarantine, but we went building to building distributing chips, soups, soda, candy. and drugs. and kites. and messages. the whole yard was high, because everyone had stimulus money. inmates were maxing out their $220 limits. every person on the yard had close to $1,700 after the stimulus checks came thru. it was the most money many of us ever had in prison.

the drugs didn’t come from visits. visits were on hold. they came from the same place they always came from: the correctional officers. fentanyl flooded the yard. people were dropping like flies. overdoses became normal. the top doctor at the local hospital even asked, “what the fuck is going on at donovan?” news stories broke. investigations were promised. but the deaths kept piling up.

i tried fentanyl once. just a little. almost died. never touched it again. that shit’s not a game. do not ever fuck with it, nigga u will die. i like to party but I stay far from that shit fr.

i was in the extended outpatient program, or e.o.p., at rj donovan for a while. think of it like the prison’s version of a psych ward. under federal law, specifically the americans with disabilities act, inmates with documented mental illnesses are supposed to be protected. the state is required to provide a certain standard of care, accommodations, and treatment. but inside, laws are just suggestions. and in e.o.p., “treatment” just meant higher doses. stronger meds. zombifying pills. it was less about healing and more about sedation. chemical restraints.

we were housed together in a building that felt like the end of the world. the ones who talked to themselves. the ones who screamed at night. the ones who never got visitors because their families had given up. and then there was jim, name changed for safety. a soft-spoken brother. cool as hell. in his 40s. ptsd, mood disorder, some trauma shit he never really talked about. we all had something. but jim was sharp, even with the meds. kept to himself. didn’t bother nobody.

one night, we were coming in from the yard. the final count time was creeping up, but jim needed to make a phone call. something had happened with his family. a death or emergency. it doesn’t even matter. he was entitled to that call. under cdcr policy, especially as someone under the a.d.a. and in e.o.p., he had the right to call his emergency contact. but the guards weren’t having it. they were irritated. lazy. didn’t feel like turning the phones on. when jim insisted, they told him to lock it up or else. he refused. said he wasn’t going to his cell until he made that call.

they slammed him. face first into the ground. it sounded like a dropped watermelon. the radio clicked. alarm blaring. red lights flashing. and then came the rush. a dozen correctional officers stormed the building like it was a riot. but it wasn’t. it was just one mentally ill man, unarmed and unthreatening, trying to talk to his family. they cuffed him, and once he was restrained, the real beating started. fists, boots, knees. his head bounced off the concrete. he was bleeding from the mouth. they dragged him up the steel stairs like dead weight, and on every step, they stomped him. jim’s body hit each edge with a metallic thud. it echoed. some of us yelled from our windows, some just watched, too traumatized to react. they brought him back down the same way. another set of guards picked up where the first crew left off. it was like a tag-team match in hell.

they threw his limp body into his cell like garbage. no nurse came. no write-up. no incident report. no nothing. just silence. the door slammed and they walked off like they had just taken out the trash.

the next day, jim’s face was a fucking horror movie. purple. swollen shut. one eye bulging. he looked like he had been mauled by a pack of dogs. he came to my door. couldn’t even speak right. said he wanted to file a lawsuit. said he wanted the truth documented. wanted people to know. but he needed witnesses. and this was a level 4 yard, filled with lifers. people who weren’t about to risk the little peace they had left for someone else’s justice. retaliation here wasn’t theoretical. it was real. they’d fuck with your mail, your visits, your food, your property. they’d beat u. disappear u. make your time unbearable. and for those never going home, it could mean the end. nobody was going to stick their neck out for jim.

but i still had four years left. i had something to lose, which meant i also had something to protect. my spirit wasn’t gone yet. so i started talking to people. going cell to cell. trying to collect statements. trying to get someone, anyone, to help build a case. and what i found was this: jim wasn’t a one-off. this was a pattern. they beat the elderly. they abused the transgender community. they beat people in wheelchairs. they beat mentally ill people who didn’t even know where they were half the time. there was one dude, schizophrenic, who used to cry every night. they sprayed him with mace while he was curled in the corner of his cell. laughed while he screamed. another guy with severe depression got beat for not standing during count. they said he was “refusing orders.” but he couldn’t move. the meds had him frozen.

these weren’t guards. they were predators.

a year later, the pressure finally cracked the walls. stories kept leaking. outside watchdogs started catching wind. lawyers. journalists. some families started asking questions. the state couldn’t ignore it anymore. they brought in an external investigative team because even internal affairs knew their own people were compromised. what the investigators found was a hellscape. systemic abuse. targeted violence against a.d.a. inmates. retaliation, neglect, falsified reports. and it had been going on for years.

the only reason it stopped, even for a moment, was because cameras finally got installed. wall-mounted ones. then body-worn cams. the officers hated it. they claimed safety concerns. they claimed budget issues. but the truth was simple. the cameras threatened their impunity. and once that eye in the sky was on, they couldn’t brutalize with the same freedom. not in public view, at least.

***original press release***

The June 3, 2020 motion includes thirty-nine declarations from people with disabilities at CSP – Los Angeles County (“LAC”), California Correctional Institution, the Substance Abuse and Treatment Facility, CSP – Corcoran, and Kern Valley State Prison, describing brutal assaults and abuse committed by officers. The declarations from LAC are particularly troubling, as Plaintiffs have been raising problems with staff misconduct at that prison since 2017. Plaintiffs also filed nineteen additional declarations from people with disabilities at RJD, describing misconduct that has occurred in just the last few months. Plaintiffs had previously submitted fifty-four declarations from people with disabilities regarding horrific abuses at RJD.

As is set forth in the declarations, officers at these prisons are throwing people out of wheelchairs, attacking people when they cannot hear spoken orders, beating people with disabilities who request accommodations or help, closing cell doors on people who use walkers and wheelchairs, and attacking suicidal people when they ask for mental health care. Broken bones, stitches, loss of consciousness and injuries that require treatment at outside hospitals are routine. Those who complain about mistreatment often face further abuse.

The systemic, omnipresent violence and retaliation have made incarcerated people too afraid to ask staff for basic disability accommodations, either informally or using the court-ordered disability grievance process. Out of fear, people have foregone requesting the help they need to access programs and services in the prison.

Plaintiffs have also submitted a report from Jeffrey Schwartz, an expert on use of force and officer discipline, in which he found that CDCR’s staff complaint, investigation, and discipline systems are broken at every level. Mr. Schwartz further found that CDCR cannot hope to fix the system until it installs fixed surveillance cameras in its prisons. Unfortunately, as part of the May Revise to the State budget, Governor Newsom removed a previously-proposed plan to spend $21.6 million to install cameras at RJD and two other prisons.

In Mr. Schwartz’s report, finalized on June 1, 2020, he wrote: “[O]ur country is in the midst of a national crisis brought on by the death of George Floyd at the hands of police officers. I am struck by the similarities between that awful case and what is unfolding in CDCR; multiple allegations of staff misconduct against the responsible officer and an utter failure to hold staff accountable before it is too late. There is one stark difference in the George Floyd case—the nation is outraged by the conduct because a video of the misconduct exists. Unfortunately, we do not have video of alleged misconduct at RJD, or throughout CDCR, and that is a travesty.”

Plaintiffs’ Motion requests that the Court issue a comprehensive remedial order requiring CDCR to create a plan to address the crisis. Among the remedies Plaintiffs seek are:

• Fixed surveillance camera coverage and body-worn cameras at the prisons with the worst misconduct

• Reforms to and third-party oversight of CDCR’s staff complaint, investigation, and discipline process so that officers are held accountable for harming people with disabilities

• Enhanced staffing

• Cultural and anti-retaliation training

• Data collection and early warning system

The Court has scheduled a hearing on the Motion and the RJD Motion for July 21, 2020.

******

i was highly politicized by this point. not just angry. not just fed up. i was forged. weaponized. sharpened. i had managed to smuggle in books they swore would never reach us. they’d censor anything that even smelled like resistance. tried to keep us sleepwalking through our own oppression. but i found the cracks. slipped through the bars of their literacy embargo. and when blood in my eye hit my hands, i was really off the hook then. i felt almost invincible. george jackson didn’t give me hope. he gave me clarity. clarity that this place wasn’t some broken reformable system. it was war. and i was a prisoner of it.

i stopped being their property that day. stopped being a number. a classification. a diagnosis. i was a revolutionary behind enemy lines. and everything i did from then on was war work. my schedule? militant. my posture? unshakable. i read, wrote, studied, trained, fasted, prayed. i moved like a man possessed. not by ego. by purpose. i wasn’t just fighting for myself. i was learning how to fight for all of us. i became dangerous. and that’s what scared them the most. not my strength, but my mind. my discipline. the way i carried truth like a blade and cut them down in committee meetings, in hearings, on 602 forms. i didn’t beg for justice. i demanded it. documented everything. made it public when i could. used their own policies against them.

the administration hated me. the guards hated me. they didn’t know how to deal with a nigga who wouldn’t fold. who wouldn’t be bought off with extra yard time or a better cell. i didn’t want comfort. i wanted freedom. and they could feel it. i was constantly testing their nuts. i was organizing. politicizing other prisoners. teaching them what due process really meant. how to file. how to resist. and they saw that spark catching. so they came for me.

they tried everything. manufactured write-ups. cell extractions. these motherfuckers tried to send me drugs in the mail like i didn't know the oldest trick in the book. i refused to sign for that shit and told them to kiss my black ass. bogus mental health evaluations. they tried to isolate me. discredit me. silence me. said i was inciting unrest. said i was unstable. said i was the problem. but the truth is that they were scared. because if one of us could wake up, more would follow. and that terrified them.

so they pulled back. used covid as cover. left the yard to burn. unofficial strike, protected by their death cult union, ccpoa. not about safety. about sabotage. about reasserting control. they didn’t want to be watched. they didn’t want body cameras catching them running dope or stomping the disabled. they wanted the shadows back. they wanted impunity.

and when the violence erupted, when the fights, the stabbings, the suicides started piling up; they stepped over the blood like it was mop water. collected hazard pay. played the victims. they created a war zone, then posed like peacekeepers.

but i stayed focused. studied revolutions. studied healing. i knew i wasn’t going to win every battle. but i was going to be ungovernable. even in a cage. because once your mind is free, their chains get real fucking weak. and once u know that, u can never go back.

the correctional officers killed my friend. they choked him to death. his name was taz. i don't got nothing else to say about that right now.

they kept retaliating against me even when i paroled. i ended up doing an extra year on parole on some bogus shit. i think they would have done worse, but every time i had to check in at the parole office they knew it was gonna be a fucking ordeal. like ain't no telling what type of shit im gonna be on. it hit different when someone can explain scientifically, analytical, surgically, why you're a class-betraying piece of shit.

.

.

.

.

fuck 12

.

.

.

.

.

there are countless stories like mine buried in the walls of places like donovan. stories of violence and survival that never make it past the tier. i am just one voice among many, but what happened to me is not unique. it is systemic. it is sanctioned. it is designed.

if this piece moved u, disturbed u, made u think, please share it. exposure is not justice, but it is a start.

below are links to court documents, official investigations, and sources that expose the system i lived thru. i tell u no lies. this is not fiction. this is california’s dirty little secret. read for yourself. stay dangerous.

https://rbgg.com/wp-content/uploads/13.-RJD-EXPERT-Reply-Vail-Decl.-ISO-Motion.pdf

https://rbgg.com/attorneys-for-prisoners-with-disabilities-file-motion-to-stop-guards-throughout-cdcr-from-assaulting-and-terrorizing-inmates/

https://rbgg.com/wp-content/uploads/Armstrong-v-Newsom-Motion-to-Stop-Defs-from-Assaulting-Abusing-Retaliating-Against-PWD-06-03-2020.pdf

https://rbgg.com/wp-content/uploads/Dkt-2948-2-Redacted-Decl-Freedman-ISO-Motion.pdf

https://rbgg.com/wp-content/uploads/Dkt-2948-3-Redacted-Decl-Nolan-ISO-Motion.pdf

https://rbgg.com/wp-content/uploads/Dkt-2948-4-Redacted-Decl-Schwartz-ISO-Motion.pdf