Solitary confinement, part one | David Dorson

I spent the first 19 days of my sentence in segregation (solitary confinement) in a provincial jail. It’s standard practice in Canada for anyone who receives a sentence of two years or more to be held first in a provincial jail before being transferred to a federal prison. 

The words “solitary confinement” entirely fail to convey the reality. Prison is never a nice place to be, even at its least bad (there is no “best” in that setting). Being in solitary means spending 24 hours a day by yourself, almost all of it in a small, uncomfortable space without the comforts that most of us feel make life worthwhile. It is survivable in small doses, dreadful over longer periods of time.

Arrival and the risk of violence

When I arrived at the provincial jail the officer in charge told the guards to put me in a segregation cell at least for the weekend. (The process of arriving and being processed into a large provincial jail is its own horrible event, to be discussed in a later column.) The officer told me that because my case had been reported in the media, she had been instructed to make sure that “nothing happened to me.” They were worried that the media attention would lead to other prisoners assaulting me if I were on a general range. 

Their fear was not unreasonable. It’s common for newly sentenced prisoners to be beaten up on first arriving in provincial jail, especially if their charges are ones that other prisoners tend not to like or just if other prisoners think they are people who merit a beating. More than one person told me that when they arrived in a provincial jail after sentencing, guards had made a point of announcing their charges loudly so that other prisoners would know — inviting violence against them. And even though I was in segregation, other prisoners on the range yelled at me, threatened me and in one case threw something at me through the slot in their door

A bleak place

My cell was in a unit with two levels each with seven or eight cells. The guard could see the window of every cell and prisoners could see the open area and guard desk from the very small window in the door of each cell. Just outside the cells were two shower compartments which were caged on all sides; one prisoner at a time could shower while locked in one of these. A door in one wall of the unit opened onto an open space for exercise, which had a concrete floor, very high cinder block walls, and a mesh covering as a roof. You could see the sky, but that’s all. It was as prison-like as any other part of the institution. 

The cell was about eight by 12 feet, with a bare concrete floor and cinder block walls. It’s hard to convey just how sterile and uncomfortable it all was. Nothing in the space spoke to what is human in us. No colour, no pictures, nothing soft and comfortable. Even the sounds are harsh — clanging doors, yells, loud buzzers, the constant drone of the air conditioning. The door was solid metal with a small window and a metal slot for food and communication.

The cell had a metal bunk bed with a plasticized, uncomfortable mattress that had a built-in and also very uncomfortable “pillow.” There was a metal table about two feet by two feet with two cylindrical metal stools, very hard to sit on for any length of time. Two small metal shelves were bolted to the wall near the bed, and a metal sink and toilet were in plain view of anyone who looked through the small window in the door. Everything was bolted down and immovable. Above the sink was a small piece of polished metal that was supposed to be a mirror but provided a very poor reflection. The cell had a small window that did not open, looking out to the space around the jail. Because it was summer, the air conditioning was on, with the result that I was always cold.

You have no power

Nobody orients you or explains the rules and procedures when you arrive in a jail. I couldn’t ask other prisoners either; I had to find out about things like schedules, showers, phone use and mail by asking a guard or, more often, by watching

As a prisoner you control virtually nothing in your life. Meals are set times, and you have only a limited time before you have to return your food tray, done or not. Lights go on and off when others decide, and not necessarily at consistent times each day. You have no privacy; you can be and are observed at any time of day or night. You can use the phone if and when a guard brings it to you. You get a shower or exercise time if and when the guard says so. Although the rules provide for a shower every second day, and exercise time the other day, in 19 days I was allowed into the exercise area twice and had a total of six showers — once because I told an officer I had not had a shower for four days. 

Meals were provided at 8 a.m., noon and 4 p.m. They came in plastic containers. You are only given a large plastic spoon to eat with, so all food has to be such that it does not require a knife, or fork. I learned to save something during the day to eat in the evening, as otherwise the time from 4 p.m. to 8 a.m. was too long. The food was mostly tasteless but edible. Fresh fruit or vegetables were only occasional. There was decaf instant coffee in the morning, tea at lunch and dinner, though the water to make these was never very hot. Juice and milk came in plastic bags that I had to open with my teeth. I had to learn to use my back teeth as doing this with my incisors made them hurt after a few days.

It is the combination of all these things — lack of human contact, a terrible physical environment, no control over anything in your life, rules and procedures that may or may not be enforced, and, perhaps most importantly, that nobody there cares anything for or about you — that make prison, and even more solitary — such a hard experience.

And yet most people survive it. More on how that is done in the next instalment. 

Editor’s note: David Dorson is the pen name of someone who went through arrest, case disposition, imprisonment and parole in Ontario a few years ago. The Lawyer’s Daily has granted anonymity because he offers a unique perspective on a subject that matters deeply to many readers, and revealing the author’s identity would make re-establishment in the community after serving his sentence much more difficult than it already is.

Interested in writing for us? To learn more about how you can add your voice to The Lawyer’s Daily, contact Analysis Editor Peter Carter at peter.carter@lexisnexis.ca or call 647-776-6740.