[Pnews] California kept prison factories open. Inmates worked for pennies an hour as COVID-19 spread

Prisoner News ppnews at freedomarchives.org
Sun Oct 11 16:05:03 EDT 2020


https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2020-10-11/california-prison-factories-inmates-covid-19
<https://www.latimes.com/california>
California kept prison factories open. Inmates worked for pennies an hour
as COVID-19 spread
[image: An illustration of face masks superimposed over a woman's face]
Robbie Hall earned 60 cents an hour sewing masks at a factory in a women’s
prison in Chino. She was hospitalized with a serious case of COVID-19 in
May after an outbreak there.
(Illustration by Alex Tatusian / Los Angeles Times)
By Kiera Feldman <https://www.latimes.com/people/kiera-feldman> - Oct. 11,
2020

While much of California shut down this spring, Robbie Hall stitched masks
for 12 hours a day in a sewing factory at a women’s prison in Chino. For
several weeks, Hall and other women said, they churned out masks by the
thousands but were forbidden from wearing them.

The incarcerated seamstresses at the California Institution for Women grew
increasingly worried: The fabric they used came from the nearby men’s
prison, where an outbreak ended up killing 23 inmates. And their boss
regularly visited both institutions.

“Are we safe with her going over there and coming back here?” Hall
remembered asking her co-workers as they sewed.

Then it happened.

In early May, COVID-19 broke out in the sewing factory, sickening at least
four incarcerated workers, including Hall. She spent weeks in the hospital
struggling to breathe.

California’s prison system has taken drastic measures to combat the
coronavirus, halting rehab programs, religious services and educational
classes. But correctional authorities kept one type of operation running
through much of the last six months: prison factories.

Hall was one of thousands of incarcerated workers who stayed on the job in
high-risk positions during the pandemic, making wages that ranged from 8
cents to $1 an hour. They cooked the food. They walked from cell to cell
delivering meals. They cleaned everything from communal showers to COVID-19
units in prison hospitals. And they labored in prison factories making
products, such as masks, hand sanitizer and furniture, that were sold to
state agencies for millions of dollars.

It was “like a slave factory. The more you give them, the more they want.”

Robbie Hall

Amid the drive for production, factories continued to operate even as
infections increased inside prison walls, according to interviews with more
than 30 inmates at the women’s prison in Chino and at Avenal State Prison
for men, including some who became infected with the coronavirus. The
factories brought together inmates who were housed in different units,
heightening the risk of spreading the virus to other areas inside the
prisons, The Times found.
[image: A smiling woman in a photo]
Robbie Hall contracted COVID-19 in a Chino prison and spent weeks in the
hospital.
(Robbie Hall)

Factory staff, they said, warned that workers would lose their jobs — their
only source of income — if they missed a day. Some said they were
threatened with discipline that could jeopardize their chances for release
from prison if they refused to work because of COVID-19 fears.

At the Chino prison, workers said, supervisors kept raising the daily
quotas, from 2,000 to 3,000 to 3,500 masks. Seven days a week, the women
cranked out masks until their bodies ached, and all they could do at night
was collapse asleep in their cells.

It was “like a slave factory,” Hall said. “The more you give them, the more
they want.”

The Times sent detailed questions and requested interviews with the heads
of state agencies responsible for prison conditions, but officials
responded through representatives.

Michele Kane, a spokeswoman for the California Prison Industry Authority,
<https://www.calpia.ca.gov/> which oversees the factories, said in a
statement that “essential critical enterprises,” such as food, laundry and
the manufacture of masks and hand sanitizer, have continued operating
during the pandemic. The agency acknowledged that goods like furniture were
made “when deemed safe” but declined to say what other factories remained
open.

Kane said the agency reduced inmate staffing at factories, imposed social
distancing and decided when to close or reopen operations in consultation
with the corrections department and the court-appointed federal receiver
overseeing healthcare inside California’s prisons.

Dana Simas, a spokeswoman for the California Department of Corrections and
Rehabilitation, said in a statement that the agency follows isolation and
quarantine protocols approved by the federal receiver. The statement said
the agency has taken “extraordinary measures to address COVID-19” in
prisons, such as providing staff and inmates with protective equipment.

But interviews with incarcerated workers paint a disturbing picture of
prison labor during the pandemic: meager wages, questionable infection
control and the threat of more time in prison looming over their heads.

Supporters of prison labor say the practice helps defray costs of
incarceration, provides job skills and reduces recidivism rates. But legal
scholars and civil rights advocates have long criticized prison labor as
exploitative and part of the historical legacy of slavery — a deep
injustice, they say, only magnified by COVID-19.

“It is a bureaucratic decision to keep people working for pennies an hour
during a pandemic,” said Kate Chatfield, director of policy at the Justice
Collaborative <https://thejusticecollaborative.com/>, a national
organization that advocates for criminal justice reform. “This should
appall everyone who wants to live in a civilized society.”

::

“Why is money more important than human lives? Inmates are just a business.”

David Burke, an inmate at Avenal State Prison

The California Prison Industry Authority, a state agency known as CALPIA,
oversees roughly 7,000 incarcerated workers statewide
<https://www.calpia.ca.gov/about/>. Through CALPIA, prison labor makes
everything from U.S. flags, license plates and packaged snickerdoodles to
furniture found in the offices of nearly every state agency.

Fabric is CALPIA’s biggest moneymaker in manufacturing, bringing in $23.7
million in revenues in 2019, with furniture not far behind at $16.9
million, according to a recent audit. The state prison system is CALPIA’s
biggest customer, accounting for about two-thirds of sales. Other major
customers include the DMV, the California Department of Forestry and Fire
Protection, and the Department of Health Care Services.

On April 1, the 11-member Prison Industry Board met and agreed to pay
prison laborers overtime — though one board member worried that inmates
would slow down production “just to get into the overtime.”

CALPIA General Manager Scott Walker acknowledged in the meeting that he
couldn’t justify keeping factories open to produce “non-mission-critical”
goods like shoes, furniture or snowplows for Caltrans. Walker said he had
been “struggling with this for days” as he thought of “requiring people to
come to work during this process to build a desk.”

Walker concluded the agency should “maybe err on the side of the medical
knowledge and say, ‘Hey, stop. Stop all this nonessential traveling across
the yard, commingling in a factory and just run the essential stuff,’”
according to a transcript of the meeting.

The furniture factory was closed at Avenal State Prison in Kings County the
very next day.

But not for long. The factory was back up and running just 27 days later,
on April 29.

The first inmates and staff at Avenal State Prison tested positive for the
coronavirus in mid-May.

Around the third week of May, an incarcerated worker in the furniture
factory tested positive and was put in isolation, according to two workers
who spoke on condition of anonymity for fear of retribution. They had all
been exposed to the man, the workers said. But a supervisor announced that
if they didn’t report to the factory the next day, they’d get a write-up —
a serious form of discipline that is a black mark when petitioning the
parole board for release.

“It prevents us from going home early,” one explained. “A bunch of us went
back to work. And a bunch of us contracted the virus.” He said he became
deathly ill with COVID-19.

Kane, the CALPIA spokeswoman, said the agency had not received complaints
alleging furniture factory workers were threatened with discipline for
refusing to work during the pandemic.

The factory didn’t shut down until May 28, according to CALPIA. The
shutdown came in response to an outbreak on the factory floor, workers
said. The factory reopened June 18, Kane said, but then closed for two
weeks in July. That was following another outbreak, workers said.

By the end of July, coronavirus cases at the prison had surpassed 1,400 and
five inmates had died.

“Why is money more important than human lives?” asked David Burke, who is
incarcerated at Avenal State Prison. “Inmates are just a business.”

As chairman of his yard’s Inmate Advisory Council, Burke receives internal
reports on prison operations, including coronavirus matters. He said that,
as of mid-August, 83% of inmates had been infected with the coronavirus in
the yard that staffs the furniture factory. Burke said the prison had
increased the risk of spreading the virus in May by allowing workers from
four different housing units into the furniture factory after one of them
had tested positive.

Even operating with a skeleton crew for half of July, the factory produced
more than $300,000 of furniture that month, inmates said.

Kane said the Avenal furniture factory has been working on an order for a
substance abuse program that prison officials hope to launch. She said
CALPIA currently uses only inmates from housing units where infections were
“deemed resolved and workers from the same cohorts who are already living,
eating, and recreating together.”

In late September, two more Avenal inmates died at outside hospitals,
bringing the total to seven. As of Friday, 296 staffers and 2,931 inmates
at the prison had been infected.

::

“I am just trying to make it out alive. I was not sentenced to death in
prison.”

Sheri Hughes, a worker in the Chino prison kitchen

Many legal scholars and civil rights advocates argue that contemporary
prison labor is a form of slavery allowed by the 13th Amendment, which
banned slavery and involuntary servitude “except as a punishment for
crime.” The language was a compromise — a way to preserve slavery in a
different configuration, said Michele Goodwin, chancellor’s professor of
law at UC Irvine.

“This amendment says, ‘Go at it! It’s OK!’ We have given the state
authority to do this form of slavery [in which] people can do unpaid or
minimally paid labor,” Goodwin said.

In the decades after the Civil War, Southern states passed laws targeting
Black people for frivolous crimes such as vagrancy. Imprisoned in droves,
they were forced to work for private industry in coal mines, brickyards,
plantations and elsewhere — a “convict-leasing” system under which prison
officials often reaped the profits.

Today, racial disparities behind bars remain stark. Black people make up
about 6.5% of California’s population but comprised more than 28% of its
prisoners at the end of 2018, the most recent date for which figures are
available.

By law, “any able-bodied inmate” can be required to “perform any work
deemed necessary” for prison operations. Though the prison can take into
account individual wishes — for example, a preference for an educational
program over work — it doesn’t have to. Once on the job, those who refuse
work or fail to perform “within the inmate’s abilities” face disciplinary
action, which can lead to denial of parole.

Several prison cleaners and kitchen staffers told The Times they were
scared of becoming infected at work but couldn’t jeopardize their release
dates.
[image: A prison, with tall fences, barbed wire, and a guard-tower]
The California Institution for Women in Chino, site of a coronavirus
outbreak.
(K.C. Alfred / San Diego Union-Tribune)

“I am just trying to make it out alive,” said Sheri Hughes, a worker in the
Chino prison kitchen, where inmates come from different housing units and
several have become infected with the coronavirus. “I was not sentenced to
death in prison.”

Incarcerated workers in California and other states are not classified as
employees. They can’t get unemployment, sick leave or paid time off. The
pay scale is set by state law, with many jobs paying 8 cents an hour and
the CALPIA jobs paying more — from 35 cents to $1 an hour.

Because of the slightly higher starting pay, the factory jobs are sought
after, and workers apply for positions. Even so, low wages make it
impossible to support family members or build up savings. Many leave prison
deeply in debt from court*-*imposed fees.

The work cooking, cleaning and producing furniture is essential for
operating the state’s prisons, which currently confine about 100,000 people
at an annual cost of $81,000 each. If incarcerated workers were paid
minimum wage, the system as it exists today would collapse, said Chatfield,
the policy director at the Justice Collaborative.

“If the price tag got so steep,” she said, “we would really have to
reconsider how many people we incarcerate.”

::

Hall, 58, grew up in South Los Angeles and has been in prison for 35 years.

She is serving a 15-year-to-life sentence for murdering a man she says
raped her and tried to kill her when she was 23. Since 1994, she has been
denied parole repeatedly. Hall would like to hire an attorney to make a
renewed case that her crime was in self-defense, but she can’t afford to.
[image: A young woman and an older woman pose smiling for a photo]
Robbie Hall pictured with her daughter. She has been in prison for 35
years, and in that time has become a grandmother and a great-grandmother.
(Robbie Hall)

As a child, Hall said, she was physically and sexually abused. In
California state prisons, 25% of women are Black, like Hall, according to
the corrections department, and 92% have experienced abuse, according to
the American Civil Liberties Union.

Before the pandemic, Hall was known in prison as a peer counselor and a
church praise dancer, spending her Sundays raising her arms to the sky,
leading worshipers in songs that promised a brighter tomorrow.

She is a proud grandmother to eight and a great-grandmother to four, so
keeping in touch with family is crucial. But it hasn’t been easy to do
that. Sending a single email costs about 26 cents to buy a “stamp” from
JPay, the company that runs the system. She also relies on her
60-cent-an-hour wages to pay for basic necessities like soap and food,
which are sold at the prison canteen at premium prices.

Hall has held many jobs in prison including kitchen server, ambulance
driver and painter.

When the hours at the sewing factory kept getting longer and longer, Hall
didn’t object. She and the other workers felt they had little choice.
Supervisors told them they’d be replaced if they refused overtime, Hall
said.

As March turned into April, prison sewing factories across the state made
more than 1.4 million masks. They primarily went to prisons for use by
inmates and staffers, but dozens of state agencies also put in orders. At
the Correctional Training Facility near Salinas, the sewing factory ran 14
hours a day, seven days a week, according to corrections records.

A number of women who sewed masks in the Chino factory said they felt they
were doing important work to help save lives. They were proud of their hard
labor, even as they criticized the conditions.

Although CALPIA insisted the agency issued protective equipment from the
start, seven incarcerated workers said supervisors told them in the first
few weeks that they’d get in trouble for wearing the masks they made. It
wasn’t until about mid-April that the whole prison, including the factory,
got masks, workers said.

The 40 women who worked in the factory were terrified when they learned of
an enormous outbreak that began in March at the nearby California
Institution for Men. Among the group was a woman in her 70s who used a
walker.

Whenever the truck from the men’s prison arrived with more fabric, the
supervisors didn’t want to go anywhere near the driver “because she had
been exposed over there,” said Kellie Chivrell, the fabric cutter in the
factory.

And so unloading the heavy fabric fell on Chivrell. She said the driver, a
CALPIA employee at the men’s prison, never wore a mask and told Chivrell
she hadn’t been given any. It wasn’t long before Chivrell tested positive
for the coronavirus and spent weeks in the prison infirmary.

At one point, Chivrell said, the prison bungled her test results,
mistakenly giving her a negative result and releasing her from isolation.
She said she spent 24 hours circulating in the general population before
prison staff realized the error. (A corrections department spokesperson
declined to comment, citing patient privacy.)

Responding to detailed questions from The Times, a CALPIA representative
said overtime hours were voluntary. The spokesperson acknowledged that
goods were transported between the prisons and that two managers had
visited both institutions in April to provide “critical support,” but the
agency denied “the generalization that we had staff continually going back
and forth.”

The outbreak at the Chino women’s prison — which has claimed the lives of
one inmate and a staffer — can’t be attributed to any one cause. Women in
the prison and their advocates have criticized officials for waiting until
May to do mass testing, as well as guards’ failure to comply with a
statewide mask requirement.

“Put your mask on, sir!” Hall called out to an officer during a phone
interview.

Whatever the reason, the sewing factory proved fertile ground for the
virus. From there, workers said, COVID-19 spread through the prison.

::

It was a neighbor who found Hall sprawled across the floor in her cell,
gasping for breath and unable to talk. She said she flailed her hands
trying to signal “222” — prison code for an emergency.

On May 8, paramedics rushed Hall to Riverside Community Hospital. She spent
weeks in and out of consciousness, fighting COVID-19-related pneumonia.

When Hall was discharged from the hospital, she returned to prison with an
oxygen tank. She had also developed a painful case of shingles and needed a
walker to get around.
[image: A woman poses for a photo with an "I love you" pillow]
Robbie Hall was found sprawled across the floor in her cell, gasping for
breath. She was hospitalized with COVID-19.
(Robbie Hall)

In total, 352 inmates and 85 staffers have been infected with the
coronavirus at the Chino women’s prison. Statewide, prison authorities say
they do not track infections of incarcerated workers separately from the
general population, so it is unclear how many of the 15,121 inmates who
have tested positive worked in factories or other jobs.

To be sure, there are many factors in the spread of COVID-19. State prisons
are over capacity, and crowded dorms and cells make social distancing
impossible.

“What keeps prisons safer? Having fewer people in them,” said Dr. Stefano
Bertozzi, professor of health policy and management at the UC Berkeley
School of Public Health. “We need to accelerate releases.”

Although she still had trouble breathing and feared reinfection, Hall
needed money for toothpaste and shampoo and tried to return to work one
day. But she felt too weak and had to leave.

As temperatures soared this summer inside the non-air-conditioned prison,
Hall used the last of her earnings to buy a $49 fan, which broke almost
immediately. Without a job, she can’t buy another.

The factory stopped making masks in the spring, workers said. More recently
the women have been sewing the orange pants and shirts worn by
California’s inmate
firefighters
<https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2020-08-31/firefighter-inmate-prison-wildfire-california-coronavirus>
.

As Hall sees it, the pandemic only deepened her understanding of the way
things are.

The prison system, she said, “keeps us as a money tree.”
------------------------------

Kiera Feldman joined the Los Angeles Times as an investigative reporter in
2019. She came from ProPublica, where her reporting on New York City’s
private trash industry exposed labor abuses and corruption, leading to a
federal investigation and new city laws. She won the Livingston Award in
2015 for an investigation of college sexual assault mishandling. A longtime
magazine journalist, before coming to the Times she reported for Harper’s,
New Republic and elsewhere.
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