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The world was destroyed. One hole started it all. But three guys just wanted a peaceful lunch break. Love can grow from the craziest places. Like the break room of a medical facility in the ... Read all The world was destroyed. One hole started it all. But three guys just wanted a peaceful lunch break. Love can grow from the craziest places. Like the break room of a medical facility in the barren wasteland of the future. The world was destroyed. One hole started it all. But three guys just wanted a peaceful lunch break. Love can grow from the craziest places. Like the break room of a medical facility in the barren wasteland of the future.



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This story was produced in collaboration with The Atlantic .


“She would wear a backpack and put stuff in it and have me walk out with it.”


the Scottsboro Boys 1 The Scottsboro Boys were a group of nine black teenagers who in 1931 faced false accusations of raping two white women on an Alabama train. Their trials were marked by lynch mobs and all-white juries, and they have since been pardoned.

nine states 2 The states where 17 year-olds are automatically tried as adults are Georgia, Louisiana, Michigan, Missouri, South Carolina, Texas, and Wisconsin.

governors of seven states 3 The states whose governors have refused to certify compliance are Arizona, Florida, Idaho, Indiana, Nebraska, Texas, and Utah. These governors have cited a wide array of grievances with the law, including the costs, as well was specific standards they say are not effective for reducing sexual assault in prison.

The best criminal justice reporting from around the web, organized by subject


“At no time did these prisoners have staff authorization to engage in sexual activity.”


“You are always gonna be in my heart. I know I’m in yours. If you leave me I will stab you.”


Essays by people in prison and others who have experience with the criminal justice system


HIV medication 4 The spread of HIV in male prisons was regularly cited in the advocacy that led to PREA's passage in 2003.

$1.5 million by 2013 5 From 2004 to 2013, the federal Bureau of Justice Assistance gave more than $54 million to states and local departments to develop policies and procedures for implementing PREA.

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would not fully comply with PREA 6 One of Gov. Perry's qualms with the PREA standards was their establishment of 18 as the age of an adult, which he wrote in a letter to the DOJ "infringes on Texas' right to establish the state's own age of criminal responsibility."

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Three years ago, the young man who would later be known as John Doe 1 shuffled into the Richard A. Handlon Correctional Facility in Ionia, Michigan. The town of 11,000 residents, which sits in the remote center of the state, houses five prisons, and over the years, it has earned the nickname “I Own Ya.” John, who was 17, had already gotten over the initial fear of going to an adult prison—he had spent several months at a county jail near Detroit and an intake facility in Jackson—but he also knew he would be spending longer at this lonely outpost, a minimum of three years for a couple of home invasions. It was still wintery in April, and his state-issued jacket was poor protection against the drafts coming through the broken windows, shattered by men who had passed through before. “It was pretty ragged,” he recalled recently, “a tear down.”
The rituals of intake were familiar. Standing in a line with several dozen other men, John stripped off his navy blue scrubs, squatted, and coughed to prove he wasn’t hiding anything. Once inside, he could try grimacing to look tough, as he had in his early mugshots, though he couldn’t hide his skinny frame or his high-pitched voice.
Over the next few days, while bringing trays of food around the blocks for his new kitchen job, John would learn that he had been placed in one of the nicer units (another he saw “looked like a basement, with the lights busted out”). But he also noticed that he was one of the youngest prisoners on the block. The other prisoners noticed too. He was what they called a “fish.”
His first cellmate was an older man, black like John, who was serving a life sentence, and he didn’t say much. Something about him seemed a little off, and that night, John says he awoke and saw this man sitting at a desk, wide awake, and staring right at him. John requested and received a new cell assignment. His second cellmate was also a lifer, and friendly enough, but after a few days the man asked to be paired with another lifer, so John was moved again.
It was around this time that the letters started sliding under his cell door. John would get a lot of letters from other prisoners over the next few months, and while they were not always explicit, some certainly were. “You are one sexy nigger,” one read. “You need a white man to show you how to act...When the opportunity comes I want to sneak in your house and hit that.” Another letter said he had a “fan club.”
John didn’t take these letters seriously; he threw many of them away. He settled into GED classes and shifts serving breakfast and lunch. From the prison library he pulled volumes ranging from the poems of Langston Hughes (“They’re so simple, but they explain so much”) to thriller paperbacks by Dean Koontz and James Patterson.
His new cellmate, whom we’ll call David, had already served a little more than a year out of a minimum of eight for robbery. He was in his early 20s, over six feet with a tuft on his chin and a thin mustache. They talked about their families and the crimes that had gotten them locked up.
But then David said something that struck John as strange. He asked him if he would ever get involved sexually with a man. John knew himself to be heterosexual; he had lost his virginity to a girl the year before. “I just kind of laughed it off,” he recalled.
And then it happened. One night after the last count before bed, John says, his cellmate suddenly attacked him, pulling down both of their pants and wrestling him onto the bottom bunk. John tried to resist, but he was less than 140 pounds, and next to David’s bulk of more than 200 he stood little chance as this powerful man forced his way in, slowly and painfully and in silence, without a condom or lubricant.
John would later estimate that it lasted seven minutes. When David was finished, he told him to keep quiet. John obeyed; though still a fish, he had been down long enough to know that snitches suffer fates worse than rape.
I n 2003, while John was still in elementary school, Congress passed the Prison Rape Elimination Act , now usually known as PREA. It was intended to make experiences like his far less likely. But like many ambitious pieces of legislation, its promise has proved difficult to realize. The law required studies of the problem that took far longer than initially intended, and adoption of the guidelines they produced has been painfully slow, resting on the competence and dedication of particular employees. PREA has not been a complete failure, but it is also far from delivering on its promise, and John’s story illustrates many of the hurdles that have impeded the law and still lie in its path.
There is a toughness about John that evaporates into shyness the moment he opens his mouth. Though he’s short and muscular, with hair he sometimes keeps in cornrows, his voice is soft, high and wheezy. He often runs out of breath after long sentences, so he speaks in clipped, self-conscious bursts. This comes from his asthma, which, in addition to several long scars that run along his legs and stomach, is the result of a moment that defined his childhood: When John was 4 years old, his single mother decided that she couldn’t take care of him anymore, so she left him inside their apartment and set the building on fire.
Handlon Correctional Facility is one of five state correctional facilities in Ionia, Mich.
John’s mother went to prison, and he went to live with his grandparents in a northern suburb of Detroit. (His story, in which names have been changed, is based on interviews, documents, and a deposition in an ongoing lawsuit.) He had a hard time bonding with his grandmother. “I kind of got a feeling that she didn’t want me,” he said, “but she took care of me because I was my mother’s child.” He started seeing a psychologist, who diagnosed him with bipolar and post-traumatic stress disorders and urged the family to enter therapy together but, as he remembers it, his grandmother refused and instead asked for him to be put on medication. He started taking Adderall, a stimulant, that “made me feel like I was wired and that I couldn’t sleep or eat,” and Seroquel, an anti-psychotic that “was the complete opposite…It put me to sleep. I was like a zombie.”
Around this time, while John was in middle school, his grandfather died. He was devastated: “I felt like he was the only person that wanted me.” One night, John drew a bath and tried to drown himself by taking sleep aids and falling asleep in the tub. His grandmother managed to revive him.
As he entered high school, John attempted the makings of what we call a normal teenage life. He was close with his two sisters. He studied art books from the library. His grandmother couldn’t afford to buy him gear to play soccer, but he found a karate studio that would let him take classes in exchange for teaching, and eventually he acquired a green belt.
During his freshman year, John reconnected with his mother. She still took drugs and worked as a prostitute, and she convinced him to help her shoplift. “She would wear a backpack and put stuff in it and have me walk out with it,” he recalled. As she struggled financially, he tried to help her by stealing from other students at school. He was caught with another student’s music player, and along with fighting and truancy, he developed a record that would get him sent to alternative school for his senior year. Things continued to deteriorate at home. John drank. He was charged with domestic violence after his grandmother wouldn’t let him leave the house and he threw a small fan against the wall. She later convinced prosecutors to drop the charges.
On a summer evening before his senior year, John says he got a ride after karate from an older male member of his extended family—he still won’t say whom, an omission that has never looked good for him. They drove to a mobile-home park just beyond Detroit’s northernmost suburbs, and pulled up to one that appeared empty. John propped a metal folding chair up against a window, climbed up, popped out the screen, and made his way inside. This happened several times. Stolen items included a Pandora charm necklace and an iPod, as well as nickels, dimes, and quarters from a change jar (they left the pennies behind). They also stole a .45 caliber pistol. Usually, the homeowners weren’t around, though one time John encountered a 9-year-old boy. John later said he was drunk during the break-in.
When John returned to his grandmother’s house, he was so scared of the gun that he tossed it into their backyard and told her he had found it there. She called the police, who came and picked it up. Eventually, they found John’s fingerprints on one of the windows from the mobile park, and figured out the gun had been stolen from one of the houses. John decided to plead guilty, figuring he would only get a short stint in a juvenile facility.
But John had turned 17 by the time of the third home invasion, and in Michigan that meant he would automatically be prosecuted as an adult. He was also charged with “criminal sexual conduct” after the 9-year-old boy told the police John had molested him. John disputed this accusation, but following his court-appointed attorney’s advice he pled guilty to a home invasion and “no contest” to the sex crime. He says he mistakenly thought “no contest” was akin to not guilty, but for purposes of sentencing it is not, and the judge considered it when deciding to send John to prison for a minimum of three years and a maximum of 20.
W hen prisoner advocates talk about PREA’s passage over a decade ago, they use use words like “miracle” and “victory.” But those same advocates acknowledge that this rare moment of bipartisanship was born out of tragedy. In 1996, a 17 year-old prisoner named Rodney Hulin Jr. had torn up his bed sheet, tied it above the door of his cell in the Clemens Unit in Brazoria County, Texas, and jumped down from the top bunk of his bed. When correctional officers cut him down, Hulin was comatose, and he died four months later.
Hulin had been raped, beaten, and forced to perform oral sex within three days of his arrival at the unit. He asked to be placed in protective custody and was turned down. After his suicide, a picture of his small shoulders and thin face circulated on major news networks and Hulin became a symbol of two related phenomena. One was the prevalence of new laws that allowed youth to be sent to adult prisons, rather than juvenile facilities, for non-violent crimes (Hulin had committed second-degree arson, resulting in less than $500 of property damage). The other was prison rape.
Among prisoners and their keepers, Hulin’s experience was hardly notable. It was widely known that younger, smaller inmates were at constant risk of sexual assault. Haywood Patterson, one of the Scottsboro Boys 1 , wrote that when he got to Alabama’s Atmore Prison in 1937, he found that young men were beaten into submission and eventually “sold themselves around on the weekends just like whore women of the streets.” In 1980, Louisiana prison-newspaper editor Wilbert Rideau won national journalism accolades for an essay called “The Sexual Jungle,” in which he wrote that “rape in prison is rarely a sexual act, but one of violence, politics, and an acting out of power roles.” Being raped, or “turned out,” he explained, redefines the male victim “as a ‘female’ in this perverse subculture, and he must assume that role as the ‘property’ of his conqueror or whoever claimed him and arranged his emasculation. He becomes a slave in the fullest sense of the term.”
Reports about prison rape by advocacy groups led to occasional efforts by federal lawmakers to address the problem. None of those initiatives gained any wide support until 2001, when Human Rights Watch released “No Escape: Male Rape in U.S. Prisons,” which focused less on perpetrators than on failures by correctional staff and policies to prevent rape. The report included harrowing first-person accounts. “The opposite of compassion is not hatred,” wrote one Florida prisoner, describing the violence he’d endured. “It’s indifference.” The revelations brought together liberal human rights activists, government-distrustful libertarians, and Christian conservatives. PREA was passed unanimously.
The lawmakers and advocates who pushed the law to passage hoped it would create standards to protect particular classes of prisoners. Recent news reports on PREA have focused almost exclusively on the plight of transgender and gay inmates, but originally the spotlight was on a much larger population: the young and inexperienced. “There was an assumption from the beginning of PREA that we wanted to protect the vulnerable,” says Cindy Struckman-Johnson, a University of South Dakota psychologist. “Age was a given. It’s the number one vulnerability.”
Struckman-Johnson served on the National Prison Rape Elimination Commission, which formed as a requirement of the 2003 law. The commission held a series of public hearings , and one of the first to testify was Steven Babbitt, who had entered an adult prison at age 18 for a non-violent theft. After multiple rapes, he had found an inmate to protect him from others in exchange for an exclusive right to sex. This inmate referred to him as Stephanie and forced him to wear makeup and shave his legs. It was not a rare scenario.
It is impossible to know how many of the teenagers sent to adult prisons in recent years have been sexually assaulted, in part because so many of them have been afraid to report. (Rape outside of prison is known to be under-reported, and the same is true within prison walls, especially because prisoners face the possibility of retaliation by both correctional staff and other prisoners.)
Some corrections officials have pointed out that sexual assaults regularly occur in juvenile facilities as well as in adult ones. But many non-violent crimes lead to probation, rather than incarceration, when they’re handled by the juvenile system, and a 1989 study found that prisoners under 18 in adult prisons reported being “sexually attacked” five times more often than their peers in juvenile institutions.
Citing that statistic, some members of the commission initially argued for a blanket ban on putting anyone under 18 in an adult facility. Commissioner Brenda Smith, a law professor at American University who is working on PREA implementation to this day, wanted the age cut-off to be 21. But she points out that this would not have been “politically realistic.” In the decades just before PREA passed, a number of states had enacted laws sentencing more youth to adult jails and prisons.
Many of these state laws were inspired by the image of juvenile “superpredators,” a term coined by the influential political scientist John DiIulio Jr., who in 1995 warned of “elementary school youngsters who pack guns instead of lunches.” DiIulio later renounced his own theories, citing a change of heart during his Catholic prayers; by 2001, he was telling The New York Times he would work “on prevention, on helping bring caring, responsible adults to wrap their arms around these kids.” But the laws he helped inspire have largely remained.
Today, 17 year-olds are automatically tried as adults in nine states 2 , while 16 year-olds automatically face adult charges in North Carolina and New Y
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