by Shakeil Price

This article was originally published in Prison Journalism Project

In 1917, a group assembled by the New Jersey Legislature to investigate prison conditions found that the buildings at West Compound in the New Jersey State Prison (NJSP) were “wholly unsuited for the present needs either of the inmates or of the officers.”

It recommended replacing it with a new prison “with suitable living conditions and space for work and recreation.”

In 1952, after a riot at NJSP, a group of officials and experts issued a report to the then-governor that condemned the prison, calling it “one of the most archaic in the United States.” 

It too recommended building a new prison according to “standards of modern penology” rather than attempting “piecemeal and temporary measures to stave off the ravages of old age.” Historical preservationists even began taking steps in the 1980s to memorialize records—assuming a demolition was imminent.

And just last year, in September, the New Jersey Office of the Corrections Ombudsperson released a report on the conditions of the West Compound at NJSP—widely considered the oldest operating prison in the country.

“The buildings in the West Compound are nearly 200 years old,” the report reads, “and for at least the last 100 years, correctional leaders, policymakers, and subject-matter experts have called for it to be demolished and replaced.”

Its top recommendation: “Prioritizing and funding the demolition and replacement of the West Compound.”

Thomas Koskovich, who has been held at NJSP for nearly 30 years, was not surprised when he learned the prison was marked for demolition over 100 years ago.

“I always felt this place was old,” he said. “I always knew it was decrepit. But the report validated what I’ve known all along.” 

Despite a century’s worth of calls for West Compound to be demolished and replaced, there are still more than 600 people incarcerated in a prison that has been deemed “antiquated” and “inhumane.” Rusty pipes, leaky ceilings and poor lighting are a feature, not a bug, of this place.

In an email to a Prison Journalism Project editor, Christopher Greeder, a spokesperson for the New Jersey Department of Corrections, said the department “continues to maintain and enhance infrastructure across facilities while pursuing long-term modernization and replacement of aging units.”

“Maintenance issues [in West Compound housing units] are addressed daily, with repairs and upgrades completed on an ongoing basis,” he wrote.

‘Shockingly’ small cells

The wings on the West Compound are intimidating in size. From the entrance, the length of the unit appears never-ending. The tiers stack four stories high with 33 single-occupancy cells on each tier. The décor is a medley of metal pipes and steel bars. Clanging and clinking reverberate throughout the unit. The poor lighting gives an eerie vibe, like you’re in the basement of a dark castle.

The wings may be massive, but the cells are the opposite.

The main components of any prison compound are its cells. They range from 28 square feet, in 7-Wing—about the size of an elevator—to 45 square feet in 1-Right, which is roughly the size of a king-sized mattress or standard bathroom in an old apartment building. Now imagine spending up to 22 hours per day inside one of these, as many people in West Compound are forced to do.

The NJDOC spokesperson did not dispute the amount of time residents are confined to their cell but said West Compound offers “structured daily movement,” including “gym, school, meals, kiosks, showers, religious services, employment, and programming,” as well as “evening incentive recreation and club activities.”

The 4-by-7-foot cells are so small—“shockingly small” is how the report described them —that a person can extend their arms and touch both side walls with the palms of their hands.

These cells aren’t suited for tall people, said Paul Reid, who is 6-foot-4 inches. The bed is too small for him. He sleeps on the floor diagonally so he can stretch his legs all the way out.

“I haven’t had a comfortable night’s sleep in 24 years,” Reid said.

The thin mattress sits atop a metal frame with a wire-mesh platform. It takes up 13 ½ square feet—nearly half of the cell’s floor space.

I currently reside on 6-Wing. The size of these cells are 35 square feet. Imagine being forced to live in your walk-in closet with a bed, sink and toilet all crammed inside of it. Add to that all of your personal belongings—in my case a TV, a radio, two fans, an ice cooler, books, letters, family photos and court transcripts.

To reclaim that extra 13 ½ square feet of floor space, I stand the bed up against the wall. With the bed down in its proper position, the cell is so cramped I have to sidestep to get around, and I have a slim physique.

Rodents, Roaches and Sewage

For a little more wiggle room, I prefer to sleep on the floor, even though this compound is infested with rodents and roaches. I see them when I walk to the shower or to work: big dead roaches. When I was locked up on 1-Right, rats came out every night like clockwork.

I was fortunate to be on the third tier, but I would hear guys on the bottom floor—the “flats,” as we refer to them here—bang on the walls and cell doors to scare away the rodents preying on little mice. On the wing where I’m housed now, guys who live in the corner cells spread Ajax cleaner on the floor outside their entryways to deter intruders.

Greeder said the department has invested “significant resources” in managing the pest problem, including “frequent extermination, trapping, and targeted treatment.” He continued, “A licensed exterminator services the area five days per week, with additional treatments as needed. These sustained efforts have substantially reduced pest-related activity, and sanitation and pest concerns continue to be addressed through established inspection and work-order processes.”

Meanwhile, the majority of units have no windows in the cells to allow fresh air to circulate, no air-conditioning to ward off the summer’s oppressive heat and no running hot water to wash your face in the morning.

“I’m from Mexico,” said Richard ­Toledo, who’s been locked up here for 20 years. “And I’m used to underdeveloped establishments, but at least [in Mexico] we got hot water in the cells in our prisons.”

Greeder said hot water is available “through dispensing machines, except one wing which operates as a Restricted Housing Unit.” Though, in my experience, these machines are typically used for tea and coffee, not personal hygiene.

The toilets are a unique system that I have yet to witness anywhere else. The toilet is actually a hole in the wall with a metal circle cut out where you can defecate and urinate. Sitting down, you face toward the front of the barred cell door, leaving you exposed to passersby. A knob on the wall flushes the water. But the waste from all the cells constantly flows beneath the makeshift toilets. Through the hole, you can see and smell the sludge of feces and urine.

“It’s more like a latrine than a toilet,” Jamie Centeno said of the toilets on 6-Wing. “The whole tiers’ shit and piss is gathered in them holes.” 

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