The Surprisingly Nomadic Lives of Prisoners

I've been living in cells of one kind or another since 2001. I was 22 when authorities threw me into the county jail to await trial for first-degree murder. A mattress on the day room floor, with zero space for peace or privacy, was initially my space. To write, I had to balance notepads on my lap. To sleep, when frayed nerves allowed it, I had to plug my ears with moistened toilet paper wads. To answer nature's call, I had to use one of two exposed toilets mounted so closely together that someone on the other one could've held my hand.

Anxiety and confusion about my circumstances were bad enough, but the unfiltered clamor and