If you asked staff at the DC Jail about solitary confinement, they might tell you it does not exist in the correctional facility. That’s because it goes by many other names. I worked for about a year as a clinical case manager in the jail, where I saw an extreme overreliance on the use of the practice. At the Department of Corrections, it’s called the SHU, North 1, South 1, administrative segregation, the Special Management Unit, protective custody, and so-called “safe cells”—those were the worst.
I am still rattled by the sight of a woman, housed on a predominantly men’s medical unit, sitting on the floor of a safe cell with a sheer curtain as her only form of privacy. She wore an oversize smock, had bare feet, and had no sheets or pillows on the bed that was bolted to the middle of the floor. She was placed in that cell because she expressed suicidal ideation, I was told, as are all people locked in the DC Jail who express similar thoughts. She cycled in and out of the safe cell during her incarceration.
During my time as a social worker, which included in New York City’s notorious Rikers Island jail complex, I had never witnessed such a heinous response to a mental health crisis.
Rikers Island is where I began my career in social work. I was drawn there as part of my commitment to criminal justice reform. I witnessed the horrible effects that solitary confinement has on people. I also witnessed efforts to eliminate the practice in general, a citywide ban of the use of solitary confinement for people with medical conditions, and more therapeutic responses for people diagnosed with mental illness, including 24-hour monitoring. I worked on Rikers Island for more than two years as a mental health reentry coordinator before I accepted the position of clinical case manager at the DC Jail.
I thought our nation’s capital would be a leader in the progression toward a humane criminal justice system. But I quickly realized that D.C. is far behind.
During my first week working for DOC, colleagues would ask me how I was settling into my new role. My response was always the same: “I can’t believe there is a place that makes Rikers Island look good.”
I still recall my first time walking into North 1, one of the two solitary confinement units in the Central Detention Facility. It was dark, dirty, and loud. Incarcerated people shouted from their cells, officers showed no ability to manage the incarcerated people outside of their cells, and men exposed themselves to me through the slots in their doors as I walked to the case manager’s office.
I observed DOC’s frequent use of solitary confinement not just as a means to address serious infractions, but also as the default placement for people who expressed concern for their safety or who were experiencing a mental health crisis. People in solitary confinement in the DC Jail are typically held in a single cell for 23 hours a day; they are allowed one hour out of the cell for exercise and showers.
Individuals in DOC custody have been placed in isolation for nonviolent violations, such as substance use, often without the required internal hearing and attorney representation. Similar to the judicial process, if an incarcerated individual receives an institutional charge, they must have a hearing and be found guilty prior to receiving discipline.
If an individual says they feel unsafe in general population, including for their sexual orientation or gender identity, that person is placed in “protective custody” and locked in a cell alone for 23 hours per day.
The DOC response to a mental health crisis is to send a person to a “safe cell,” where they are held until they are no longer determined to be a risk to themselves. Despite the different names, these practices all constitute solitary confinement and cause serious harm.
What I have observed to be DOC’s overreliance on isolation stands in stark contrast to its transparency around the practice. A recent report from the Council for Court Excellence highlights the difficulty the nonprofit had in getting even basic information about DOC’s use of solitary confinement. CCE requested data from fiscal years 2019 through 2021, for example, but DOC only released limited information from 2021.
According to the CCE report, despite years of negotiations, DOC would not provide demographic information, including the number of pregnant people, placed in solitary confinement; information on when and for how long restraints are used; the number of safe cells and how frequently they’re used; the number of people placed in solitary immediately after intake; and the number of people in solitary confinement who attempted or completed self-harm or suicide, among other details.
The limited details provided to CCE about DOC’s use of solitary confinement in 2021 include:
• 98 people were held in safe cells for an average of 2.6 days
• 35 percent of residents with an active diagnosis of a serious mental illness were placed in administrative restrictive housing, disciplinary restrictive housing, prehearing detention, or protective custody.
• The average length of stay in restrictive housing for fiscal year 2021 was 49 days (“which includes the time when an entire housing unit was in COVID-19 quarantine,” according to the report).
DOC’s use of solitary confinement fails to reduce violence and poses significant challenges to successful reentry into the community.
Solitary Watch says that jurisdictions that have limited their use of solitary confinement have experienced a decrease in prison violence and safer working conditions for staff. As part of North Dakota’s process of ending solitary confinement, the corrections system sought to train officers, improve working conditions, and create an environment where staff are engaged in the rehabilitative process.
There are alternatives that allow carceral institutions to maintain safety in a facility, as well as the mental and emotional health of people in their custody.
In my experience, commissary restrictions, relocation, and conflict resolution are more effective at promoting prosocial behavior in response to institutional infractions. To avoid exacerbating mental health issues, the use of 24-hour suicide watch by an officer and peer support specialist has been successful in other facilities, including those on Rikers Island.
Ward 1 Councilmember Brianne Nadeau’s ERASE Solitary Confinement Act, introduced with support from seven other lawmakers last fall, calls for the prohibition of solitary confinement for individuals in DOC custody. The legislation also mandates a minimum of eight hours of recreation time daily, imposes limits on the use of safe cells, and encourages better access to mental health and medical treatment.
The bill also requires DOC to collect and publish data on the ongoing use of solitary practices, which would lead to increased accountability and oversight. That part is essential, too.
In order to successfully implement some of the bill’s provisions, DOC should hire more mental health care providers and more correctional officers. On any given day, two or three guards could be supervising a floor of 30 to 100 jail residents, making it difficult to carry out the bill’s goals. Higher pay and better benefits could help entice more people to apply to these hard-to-fill positions. For safer alternatives to succeed, staff must receive the necessary training, such as in crisis intervention, and support from leadership.
Bills in Congress aimed at addressing the use of solitary in the Federal Bureau of Prisons (where many D.C. residents are serving sentences) and in immigration detention centers appear unlikely to move forward. Similarly, the ERASE Solitary Confinement Act has not been scheduled for an initial hearing in the Committee on the Judiciary and Public Safety. Lawmakers have until the end of the two-year Council period in December to act before the bill expires. Its passage would be a positive step toward transforming D.C.’s correctional facilities into environments where safety, mental health, and rehabilitation take precedence, benefiting not only those within the walls of the jail but our entire community as well.
Brittany Vazquez is a Licensed Master of Social Work with an Advanced Certification in Forensic Social Work. Her experience includes working with court-involved youth, incarcerated individuals, and returning citizens in New York City, Maryland, and the District of Columbia. She has volunteered with the DC Justice Lab’s Unlock the Box Coalition, pushing for reform in D.C.’s criminal justice system.
