By Aaron Reiss
By Angelica Leicht
By Dianna Wray
By Aaron Reiss
By Camilo Smith
By Craig Malisow
By Jeff Balke
By Angelica Leicht
Twice this summer, on mornings in June and August, I stood at the corner of Commerce and San Jacinto as the inmates came shuffling out of the Harris County Jail, tired and dirty, squinting into the light. There was Charlotte Lavan, a 24-year-old black woman accused of passing worthless checks: "My family needed groceries," she said. "I ain't fixing to lie on that. I did it, and I'd do it again." There was 22-year-old Eddie Garza, emerging from 11 days for possession of .01 grams of cocaine: "They got it out of my nose," he said. And there was Wade, who like others here preferred not to give his last name. He was a 43-year-old father of five kids, a construction worker who said, "Damn traffic tickets so high, how the hell are you supposed to be able to pay? I can't pay, so I sit it out."
When I asked Wade how he liked the accommodations, he lit a cigarette he'd borrowed and said, "Ain't worth a shit, to be honest." When I remarked that jails are like that, Wade, among others, clarified that no, he was an educated man on these matters — a veteran of jails in North Dakota, Montana, California — and Harris County's was without doubt the worst jail he'd known. "It's way overcrowded in there," he said, "and unorganized as hell."
This was essentially the conclusion recently reached by the U.S. Department of Justice. Following a year-long investigation, DOJ officials reported in June that the jail is crowded, unsanitary and dangerous, and that inmates risk death from the unsanitary conditions, a lack of medical care and guard violence.
The Justice Department expressed hope that the county would work to resolve these issues, but Sheriff Adrian Garcia, whose office runs the jail, instead denied virtually all of the Department of Justice's findings. The jail, he insisted, was "safe, sanitary and in compliance with the strictest of standards."
The formal response in August from County Attorney Vince Ryan only backed the sheriff up. In 300 pages, Ryan told the feds that "our criminal justice facilities are doing a great job." "What has happened here," he explained, "is that the Justice Department Civil Rights Division believed what the inmates told them and did not look at the files and facts as my office has done."
Ryan seemed to believe that the Department of Justice would soon acknowledge its own naiveté and ineptitude and let the matter drop, but I wasn't so sure. Not wanting to wait for the resolution of the lawsuit the feds have promised, I set out to discover what really goes on behind the walls.
The sheriff and the county attorney dismiss the accounts of prisoners as "anecdotal evidence" — lies, it seems — but such evidence is otherwise known as the statements of victims and witnesses. Everyone I spoke to outside the jail had been imprisoned on nonviolent charges, and like most in the jail, the majority had not yet faced trial. They were to be presumed innocent. And if they all lied to me, I can only say that it must have been the work of a vast conspiracy of brilliant minds, which has never been my conception of jail.
The intake process at the Harris County Jail is "horrible, horrible," said Frank George Smith Jr., who was jailed for possession. "One of the officials actually told us, 'We are understaffed, so it's going to be pretty slow,'" said Laurence, a computer technician sitting out traffic tickets. "It's like we were all cattle stuffed into this one big room," said Melissa Miller, 39, who was picked up on an old warrant for a bounced check.
"It's chaos in there, sir," said a Hispanic man who was charged with burglary of a habitation and wished to be called Rodney. "Dirt like this gutter's all over the floor — and feces, another man's shit, on the floor." Charlotte Lavan spoke of the gnats flying around. "It's filthy," she said. "It's horrible!" The first holding cell wasn't air-conditioned, said Wade. "You got bums in there," he said, "people who pissed in their pants, throwed up on theirselves. People who ain't got no pants."
"They kept putting people in there," Wade went on. "Shit, they could see there were too many people in there as it was." "They kept adding people," said Laurence. "It didn't make sense." "Of course, everyone was sweating, so it didn't take long for there to be a smell." Shemika, a homemaker charged with child abandonment, remembered that "the door said 'Capacity 22,' but must have been 50 or 60 there." People were standing shoulder to shoulder, said Jarret, a 20-year-old mixed martial arts fighter charged with possession. "The guards were talking about how overcrowded it was." There was nothing to do but count. "I stopped counting after 150." Todd, a 21-year-old West University man jailed for possession, said, "You really couldn't sit down." Everyone's "packed in like sardines," said Wade. "I stood for six hours."
As for meals, "that whole food thing is hit or miss," said Shemika. "When they did feed you, it was a bologna sandwich — and I'm Muslim." Frank George Smith Jr. said he was there three and a half days and got just two sandwiches. No one was given anything to drink. There was only the fountain, which was suspended just above the toilet. The toilet was "like a fucking rain forest," Jarret said, "fungus and mold in there like this thick." People were lying on the floor around it; someone was always sitting on it. Jarret managed not to use the toilet for two and a half days — "man, you just take the stomach pains," he said — but he had to drink. "You practically got to put your face in shit to drink," he said. And Smith said, "you see that tan truck there? The water looked about like that."