LAST RESORT

High-control unit may be next battleground for inmate rights

HUNTSVILLE -- Pasted to the narrow window pane of Carlton Russell's steel
cell door is his ominous, hand-lettered warning: "I ain't no killer, so
don't push me."

It means what it says, the 21-year-old Dallas robber retorts. "The guards
are harassing me."

His dark eyes dart angrily as he watches from his 3-inch-wide window.

At the other end of the cellblock, 22-year-old Lewis Thurman of Houston,
doing 10 years for robbery, pounds his door with his fists and rants
incessantly:

"He's trying to kill us! Y'all are torturing me. ... They're treating me
like a dog."

This end of the cellblock reeks of urine and feces, though the source of the
stench -- an inmate who flooded his cell with his own bodily wastes -- has
already been moved.

Elsewhere, another robber, James McDow, 38, of Dickens, frantically hollers:
"I'm mentally at my end! I've packed my stuff. I'm contemplating suicide."

Throughout the cellblock, dozens of other men are hurling invectives,
beating on cell doors with metal cups, stomping, kicking, screaming about
nothing in particular and everything in general.

Upstairs, it's more of the same, and the cavernous design of this
concrete-and-steel prison does nothing but amplify the noise. It is
deafening and perpetual.

Inmate Ricky Shelton is one of the exceptions. He sits quietly in his cell
reading and writing letters home, apparently oblivious to the din all around
him. At 31, he's doing his second stint in prison for drug-related crimes.

Life here is "a little better" than cells he has occupied elsewhere, said
Shelton, a native of San Antonio. "It's not that hard. ... But it's lonely,
and I miss my family."

This apparently is a good day for Shelton whose disciplinary record is a
long one, according to warden Bob Chance. But Shelton likes the isolation
and admits that without the structure this prison offers, "I get too upset
too fast."

This is the Estelle High Security Unit outside Huntsville, the Texas
Department of Criminal Justice's multimillion-dollar monument to prison
efficiency and security.

It's a place where more than 600 of the most violently out-of-control
criminals in the state are locked away in 6-by-9-foot cells. A place where
conversations are carried out only at eardrum-piercing decibels. A place
sunlight never reaches. And a place where the only physical contact a
prisoner is likely to have comes while he is being handcuffed or forcibly
subdued by guards.

To most of the men condemned to do their time here and to critics of such
prisons, this is a place devoid of hope.

State officials and many criminologists, however, say high-security prisons,
also called control units or "super-seg" units, are necessary to stem a
rising tide in prison violence, not just in Texas but throughout the
country. They are, some say, the next generation of prisons. But these
prisons also represent what may become the next legal battleground over
prisoner civil rights.

Menacingly ugly, even by prison standards, the High Security Unit is stark
and virtually windowless, the exterior a concrete and corrugated-metal box
surrounded by security fencing topped with canopies of coiled razor-wire. It
is the model for four others under construction around the state.

Inside, however, it is equipped with the latest in high-tech, computerized
penal hardware designed to minimize the contact that violent inmates have
with prison staff and other offenders. Guards who patrol the cellblocks are
backed up by others who sit in locked, darkened control rooms, their eyes
glued to panels of computer monitors that relay and control activity in an
individual cell or an entire wing.

Each cell is self-contained with a stainless steel toilet and a shower head
barely protruding from the wall. Each evening around 7:30, guards in the
computerized control rooms turn the water on for 30 minutes; it sprays
directly onto the concrete floor, eliminating the need to move prisoners to
a shower room, as is done in other units.

The only view out of the closet-size cells is through two narrow window
panes on the doors, which stare out on the barren center of the cellblock.

There are no day rooms for watching television or socializing with other
prisoners, nor are there any education or work programs. About half of the
inmates are allowed radios because their behavior has earned them that
privilege; for the remainder, the only auditory stimulus comes from the
wails of those around them.

There is no group recreation. Prisoners are allowed out of their cells at
most two hours a day, five days a week for recreation alone in one of 82
outdoor, covered cages. The worst get out only three hours a week. If that's
not enough to get a prisoner in line, there's always the dreaded food loaf
and paper gown restrictions, usually reserved for those intent on throwing
food and other matter on guards.

Texas has four other high-security prisons just like this scheduled to open
by early next year. Like the Estelle High Security Unit, they will be
reserved for confirmed prison gang members and those who have been placed in
administrative segregation for raping, beating or stabbing guards or other
prisoners, or for other violent outbursts.

Those new units will bring to 2,640 the number of high-security cells in
Texas. Added to the 7,700 ad-seg cells in many other prisons across the
state, these cells for holding the most violent criminals will represent
about 7 percent of the total prison capacity. The design of older units,
however, does not provide the same level of isolation and security found in
the new high-security prisons, officials said.

But there already are indications that this may not be enough.

The number of prisoners who wreak havoc behind bars or join gangs is
growing, officials say. In 1987, the first year the agency kept statistics
on ad-seg prisoners, 2,739 inmates were classified as such. By last year the
number had grown to 8,172, and some state analysts project the need will
continue to grow at 35 beds per month at least through August 2000.

Violence behind bars, criminologists say, is fueled by a number of factors,
all contributing to inmates' feelings that they have little to lose by
acting up. More youthful offenders are being sent to TDCJ, gangs are
growing, racial tensions are rising and prisoners of all ages are doing
longer stretches of time. At the same time, parole rates have dropped
precipitously, from a high in 1990 when nearly eight of every 10 prisoners
eligible were released early. Last year, one in five eligible prisoners was
approved for parole.

Critics of these high-security units contend that the isolation these
prisoners endure leads to psychotic breakdowns, and that aggressive,
mentally ill prisoners are dumped there simply because it is easier than
treating their illnesses. Locked away and untreated, these people become
more violent, ensuring even longer confinement in virtual isolation.

"There is a subset of the mentally ill in prison that we call the
mad-and-bad," says Dr. Walter Quijano, former head of psychiatry for TDCJ
who now is in private practice in Conroe. "It's more convenient for TDCJ to
say this person is an administrative problem" than to treat his mental
illness.

U.S. District Judge William Wayne Justice recently berated TDCJ over its use
of administrative segregation, saying that many prisoners placed in ad seg
"are deprived of even the most basic psychological needs" in violation of
the U.S. Constitution. "These inmates suffer actual psychological harm from
their almost total deprivation of human contact, mental stimulus, personal
property and human dignity," he wrote in his March 1 order retaining
jurisdiction over some TDCJ operations.

"The pain and suffering caused by extreme levels of psychological
deprivation are equally, if not more, cruel and unusual" than that inflicted
"by a cat-o'-nine-tails lashing an inmate's back," the judge said. "The
wounds and resulting scars, while less tangible, are no less painful and
permanent when they are inflicted on the human psyche."

Staff at the High Security Unit disagree adamantly with Justice's finding.

"I've not had one offender complain to me about isolation," said assistant
warden Bob Chance. "These guys talk to you about day-to-day problems."

Unit officials insist that supervisors circulate regularly through the unit,
checking on inmates, listening to their complaints, even chatting amiably
with them in the recreation yard. And TDCJ Executive Director Wayne Scott
said prisoners are screened for mental illness and those confirmed to suffer
from it are not sent to the High Security Unit. Correctional officers also
routinely check prisoners for signs of mental deterioration.

At the hearing earlier this year before Justice, Craig Haney, chairman of
the psychology department at the University of California at Santa Cruz,
testified that TDCJ's solitary confinement cells are among the most inhumane
he has ever visited and that the level of despair of prisoners housed there
was the worst he had witnessed. He described seeing inmates smeared with
feces and standing in puddles of urine and others banging their heads
against the cell walls.

While some experts disagree on whether there is sufficient data to say
definitively that all prisoners will suffer mental breakdowns after
prolonged time in isolation, they do agree that the mentally ill should
never be confined in such settings.

TDCJ has one location for what it terms the "physically aggressive mentally
ill offenders" at the Clements prison in Amarillo. But the 468 beds there
are hardly sufficient to handle the actual numbers who need it, contends
Quijano, who helped establish the program while he was still working for
TDCJ.

David Ward, a professor of sociology at the University of Minnesota and a
consultant on super-seg units to the U.S. House Judiciary Committee, says
his 16 years of studying federal prisoners subjected to years of solitary
confinement show that criminals can withstand the punishment.

"It's very clear these guys who are not mentally ill can do the time," said
Ward, emphasizing that his research has dealt only with federal inmates.

"These guys are not like the rest of us," he added. "They approach (doing
time) in a way that would be completely different for the rest of us. We
probably would have mental health problems if we were in there."

TDCJ's Scott said he disagrees with critics like Haney who say ad seg leads
to the psychosis of prisoners. "I go through that facility fairly frequently
and I've seen very little `acting out' there," he said.

Wesley Johnson, a criminal justice professor at Sam Houston State
University, said super-seg prisons remain uncharted territory. He paints a
frightening picture of what will happen when criminals who have spent
decades in ad seg are released.

"In essence we're building monsters," Johnson said. "They're going to come
back and bite us. It's not a bright future."

And while TDCJ does not currently have a transition program that would place
inmates back in a general population before being released, Scott said the
agency is developing such a program.

Quijano, the former TDCJ chief psychiatrist, and Windel Dickerson, a former
prison psychologist who is in private practice in Bryan, say there is some
benefit to super seg so long as the mentally ill are not sent there.

In his visits with clients at the Estelle High Security Unit, Dickerson
said, "I didn't have one of those (who was) never touched by human hands."

Indeed, staff at the High Security Unit insist they make regular rounds in
the cellblocks, talking with prisoners and assessing their mental state.
Guards at that facility are given 40 hours of additional training on
recognizing the symptoms of mental illness, Scott said.

Inmates also are reviewed after 30, 60 and 90 days and then every six months
to see if their behavior warrants being moved out of ad seg, Scott said. But
Maj. William De la Rosa, the highest ranking correctional officer at the
unit, admits that most are here for at least two or three years and that
gang members most likely will never be removed to the general population.

Prisoners who show symptoms of psychotic breakdowns are quickly moved out,
usually within 72 hours, Scott said.

But Justice said testimony at the hearing earlier this year indicated that
too often guards dismiss physical signs of psychosis as part of prisoner
gamesmanship.

And Quijano said he does not believe prison guards are qualified to assess
that behavior.

Furthermore, Quijano said, "a number of those prisoners (assigned to super
seg units) will psychologically break" and unless an inmate is being treated
for psychological problems before being sent to super seg, chances are that
once there, he will not be reviewed by medical staff as often as he should
be.

Dickerson agrees, adding that over time, high-security units tend to break
down the coping abilities of otherwise mentally healthy prisoners, making it
more difficult for the inmates to return to the general population.

"There is absolutely no substitute for being able to interact with other
human beings," he said.

He questions the wisdom of putting inmates in situations where they have
nothing to do. "You don't want someone just sitting there with their
imaginations running wild," he said. "The human mind looks for something to
do."

And to some extent, he added, inmates are dependent on the rigid routines of
prison life to stay tied to reality. "If you take away all their (routines),
then all they can do is start making things up."

"This is very clearly a management device of last resort," said James
Marquart, a criminal justice professor at Sam Houston State.

Although leery of super-seg facilities, Marquart also admits he does not
know what other options prison administrators have for dealing with
hard-core violent criminals.

"You can't beat them any more," said Marquart, who worked briefly as a TDCJ
guard. "You can't kill them, and you can't drug them."