Blue Walled Prisons
Abolitionists and criminal justice reform advocates have identified a pattern that occurs as we attempt to humanize a system that is fundamentally flawed. Well-meaning reforms have simply entrenched the antiquated, questionably-effective punitive models that cause widespread suffering and siphon public funds to support a bloated and inhumane human warehousing industry. If you’re interested in this topic, I was inspired by the tireless work of No New Jails NYC.
This is a micro-fiction work-in-progress.
Marie hugged her tablet to her chest, nourishing the satisfaction of finishing the inspection early. It’d been a long time since she’d had a chance to play outside with her daughter. She turned left past the empty administrative offices and headed to the double gates where Bill waited to let her out.
“Everything up to standards?” Bill asked.
Marie gave Bill a half-smile.
Bill stumbled on, “I told them not to use that white like they wanted, it’s just gonna get dirty, so they went with half white and blue.”
Marie stepped out into the Brooklyn air, feeling a relief that surprised her. “Thank you,” she said to Bill as a dismissal as she faced her parked car.
“So we should be up and running soon, right?”
Marie tucked her tablet under her arm and fished in her purse for her car keys. Bill’s insistence on inane conversation irritated her. Everyone knew this borough jail was opening in a month. The union had practically thrown a party.
The contractors would be happy as hell. After the stress she’d given them two weeks ago, today was really just a formality. It remained to be seen whether the new jail in Queens would be anywhere near ready. Apparently, they’d run out of doors. Stupid idiots didn’t realize the tariffs would impact sourcing.
The parking lot still had quite a bit of construction residue, but it wouldn’t take long to sort that out, plus, it wasn’t on her checklist. Marie glanced at a sign for visitor parking that lay sideways on the ground next to a sign that read superintendent. She dug elbow deep in her bag, loose strands of hair falling around her face.
“Uh, I hope you didn’t lose your keys in there,” Bill offered.
In fact, she had. She felt the deepest sadness at the thought of daylight slipping away while she went back in to look for her keys. Her chest burned with frustration.
“Can you let me back in please? I think I know where I left them.”
Bill chortled, “They always say it’s a revolving door.”
Marie pulled her phone out her pocket, a talisman of safety.
“Oh, that won’t work around here,” Bill said as he opened the gates, “they installed that new fancy cell jammy thing. So now they can’t smuggle in phones and get on Facebook and all that.”
“I’ll be right back,” Marie said, hurrying down the dark hallway.
