“We are treated like animals, and are told that we have no rights, and we sure feel like we don’t,” reads the final paragraph of the letter. “I have great concern for the safety of myself and others here at [the Albemarle-Charlottesville Regional Jail].”

The handwriting, in pencil, is large, legible, soft; the paper’s rounded corners and jagged left edge hint that it was ripped from a composition book. The letter details the jail’s cleaning procedures, or lack thereof. “All inmates in lockdown blocks share one shower. …The green cleaning rags are washed with dirty mopheads. …You have to eat, sleep, and work in the same clothes all day.”

This letter is not unique. Since the fall, the Charlottesville chapter of the Democratic Socialists of America has been corresponding by mail with two dozen people incarcerated in the Albemarle-Charlottesville Regional Jail.

Around the country, jails, prisons, and detention centers have been hit hard by COVID-19. For incarcerated people in the United States, the infection rate is three times higher than that of the general public, while the mortality rate is twice as high. At least 275,000 have tested positive for the virus, and over 1,700 have died.

Locally, 12 incarcerated people and 12 staff members have tested positive for coronavirus since the start of the pandemic, says ACRJ Superintendent Colonel Martin Kumer. The jail currently reports one incarcerated person and two staff members with active COVID cases.

But in the letters collected by the DSA, and in interviews with C-VILLE, ACRJ’s incarcerated people tell of a terrified jail population, disrespectful guards, and insufficient COVID containment procedures.

Keeping the outside out

The problems with COVID containment begin at intake.

One woman reports that when she was brought to the jail in September, she was put in a cell by herself that had not been cleaned, and was not allowed to take a shower. When she asked for cleaning supplies, staff claimed they could not find any for her to use. (Most of the incarcerated people who communicated with DSA and C-VILLE for this story requested anonymity out of fear that speaking up could lead to punishment inside the jail.)

Over the next two weeks, the woman says she was moved three times into cell blocks that had also not been cleaned, before finally being put into a quarantine area with two other people for another two weeks.

“This is deliberate indifference by the facility, from the top down,” she says. “They are ignoring conditions of confinement that are likely to cause a serious, life-threatening illness.”

A different letter writer reports that he contracted COVID while quarantining on his way in. When people are first brought into the jail, they are screened for COVID-19 symptoms and exposure. People who are symptomatic or have had a recent exposure are tested for coronavirus, while those who have no symptoms are put into a quarantine unit for two weeks.

Placed in a quarantine pod with 11 men, the letter writer describes catching the virus from a man who was asymptomatic. When he—and several others—began to develop severe symptoms, he says the nurses ignored him for several days before finally moving him to the medical unit, where he reports receiving further inadequate treatment. Though he recovered from the virus, it has left him with brain fog and memory issues.

After the initial screening period, incoming incarcerated people join the general population and are not tested again unless they show severe symptoms. The last time the jail tested the full population and staff members was in September.

“Large-scale facility-wide COVID tests are only conducted when an outbreak has occurred,” says Kumer. “We have been fortunate that we have not experienced an outbreak that would warrant a large-scale test.

“Testing asymptomatic, non-exposed staff or inmates…would [also] yield a false sense of security, since a person could contract and shed the virus in between testing, or test negative today, only to be exposed or contract the virus tomorrow,” he adds. “We have to operate on the assumption that everyone is positive and wear PPE and take universal precautions whenever possible.”

“While the jail has sort of touted their preventative measures, and what a good job they’ve done…it seems like they’ve actually done the bare minimum just to keep people from dying in droves,” says Melissa, a DSA member who has been writing and receiving letters from the jail, and who asked that we not use her last name out of fear of retaliation.

The jail has taken some substantive steps to reduce its population. ACRJ has drastically expanded its Home Electronic Incarceration program, allowing people to be removed from the jail early and serve out the rest of their sentences from home, while wearing an ankle monitor. Before the pandemic, an average of 430 people were housed in the jail, with only three to five on HEI. Now, the jail population has dropped to as low as 300, with an average of 65 to 75 people on HEI, says Kumer. As of January 18, there are currently 345 people incarcerated at ACRJ, a majority of them ineligible for HEI due to their charges or convictions.

But even with the reduced population, it’s impossible to socially distance inside the jail, where people are constantly moved around, says Jennifer Hughes, who has been incarcerated at ACRJ since December 2019.

“The [cells] stay open all day until night time, when you have to go to sleep, but…[they’re] not very big,” says Hughes, who is currently housed in a closed cell block. “If you put your foot off the [bunk] bed, you could put your foot in the toilet—it’s that tight.”

And Kumer confirms that social distancing is also not enforced in common spaces.

“When the food comes, we’re expected to eat at a bench. Right now, there’s six people in the area I’m in, and you can maybe get six inches from the next person. You’re basically elbow-to-elbow eating,” says another incarcerated woman.

‘Nasty’

In addition to the close quarters, incarcerated people report that the jail itself is in poor physical condition. The older part of the jail, where the women are currently housed, was built in the 1970s.

“It’s so nasty in here,” says Hughes. “The paint is peeling off. We have bugs in here biting us. There’s springs hanging out of the wall. There’s pieces of iron sticking out. If you’re not careful, it’ll hit your feet and it’s sharp.”

In their letters, women report black mold and mildew in the vents, as well as faulty wiring, freezing temperatures, and standing water. And because there are no call buttons in the older part of the jail, the women have to yell and bang on the doors whenever they need help.

“We had an emergency in here today with a woman that has high sugar. It took a good five minutes of hollering, banging, and waving frantically at the camera to get anyone’s attention,” wrote one woman. “Good thing no one was dying.”

Kumer admits the older section of the building is “in desperate need of renovation.”

The men, housed in a newer part of the jail which was built in 2000, have also reported a range of sanitary issues in their cell blocks, including bug infestations, heating outages, and dirty vents.

One trustee, who works on a cleaning detail in exchange for a reduced sentence, reports receiving only one cleaning rag and watered-down solution to clean an entire cell block, which includes bunks, toilet, and shower.

According to Kumer, the cleaning solution used at the jail is approved by CDC to kill the coronavirus, and is properly diluted.

“The showers in my block have not been cleaned in over three weeks,” reports one man. Another letter writer puts it bluntly: “The sanitation or lack thereof is appalling.”

Unguarded

Multiple incarcerated people report the jail staff taking a lackadaisical at best approach to COVID prevention.

“Half of these officers wear masks at their own discretion,” says Hughes. “They’ll come into our pods, take their masks off, and start coughing and making jokes. It’s really not funny.”

“The guards hardly ever have the mask on properly, they constantly pull them down,” reads one letter.

Some of the writers report officer misbehavior unrelated to COVID. “The COs are very disrespectful at night,” reads another letter, “slamming on the doors every 15 minutes to ½ hours at night all night long.”

“It is not feasible to force any resident to wear a mask, although it is encouraged…since the majority of our facility is open air and dormitory in nature,” says Kumer. “Unless residents also wear their mask properly while they sleep, it’s not as effective as it otherwise could be. …Staff are required and if necessary disciplined if they are not wearing their PPE.”

Multiple letter writers accused the jail’s medical team of not taking pre-existing ailments seriously, failing to provide people with the treatments they need.

“The medical care is a joke,” wrote one woman. “I have serious medical issues. I was not sentenced to death by virus.”

“Medical is very neglectful in here and don’t care what people’s needs are and there are issues that many people have,” wrote one man. “I’m diabetic, it took me 10 months to convince them that I’m a diabetic in need of diabetic meds + insulin…I could have died of a heart attack.”

And on top of their physical ailments, those held in the jail report suffering from acute loneliness and boredom.

Throughout the pandemic, the jail has allowed everyone to have two free phone calls and emails per week. However, it has banned visitation.

“We are the only jail that don’t have tablets [and] video visits…We have not seen our families in almost a year,” wrote one man.

“Once a week we have people from the outside deliver our commissary items,” wrote another man. “How come we have people from the street in here with us every day, but we can’t have visitors behind the glass?”

Because the jail has canceled all programming, people are “really bored,” adds Melissa. “Many of the books they have access to have missing pages, they’re all old…There’s just nothing for them to do.”

According to Kumer, the jail is working to provide video visitation, but programming and in-person visitation currently pose too great a safety hazard.

“I haven’t had a visit in at least nine months, but other jails have tablets and video visits. What makes us different?” reads one letter. “Thank you for responding back to me, I was starting to think I was forgot about.”

“I hope they do start some type of visitation soon,” says another letter. “It’s been almost a year since I last seen my baby’s.”

While Melissa, along with her fellow DSA activists, hopes ACRJ leadership will work to remedy the dire issues voiced by incarcerated people, she believes the solution is not a matter of funding—but of massively lowering the jail population.

“They should release people…so they can provide adequate care for the people in their system,” she says. “Increasing their budget will not resolve these issues. They will continue to treat these people as if they’re not worth anything, and their lives don’t matter.”

“It is a damn shame to be treated like fucking trash and not cared for or any care any at all. People can turn their heads and look the other way, but it ain’t them or happening to them,” ends one letter. “There is no justice anymore.”

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