I posted an excerpt...

...yesterday from my friend's book, My Road Home, in which the author recalls his bus ride to Rikers Island, the first stop on his thirteen-month odyssey through the New York state prison system.

Coincidentally, Andrew Sullivan has a post today which links to a piece in the Village Voice about violence at Rikers. (Warning: it's a little grisly.)

In the meantime, here are the next few paragraphs from My Road Home: 

An hour into the ride Carlos begins to scream, "C.O., I need to take a shit, stop the bus." This goes on for a solid 20 minutes. The guards pay him not the slightest bit of attention. Unless you've been stabbed, or are having a heart attack, they don't want to hear it. We arrive around 5:00 p.m. and the thirty of us are unshackled and led to various holding cells. Thankfully Carlos and I go our separate ways. The bouncing back & forth from holding cell to holding cell continues throughout the night. Each one more crowded and dirtier than the next. At times I am called out to give my name, sign some papers, get my picture taken, yelled at for no apparent reason other than they (the guards) can. I spend the bulk of my time lying on the cold, smelly, dirty floor. I try to catch some sleep, or at least rest my eyes, when all of a sudden I feel a water-bug crawling up my arm. 

Eventually we all get a turn to see the Doctor who makes sure no one is entering the Island with some horrendous disease. Twenty of us are led into a class room like anti-room before seeing the Dr. It's 3:00, Saturday morning. We sit upright at desks while a movie is playing on a lone TV screen bolted into the wall. "Starsky & Hutch" is being shown. There is no talking allowed. We sit, stare, try to stay awake, and wait for our names to be called. I'm hungry, incredibly tired, sad, and afraid. 

It isn't until 4:00 p.m. on Saturday, thirty hours after my sentencing, when I am finally taken into a dorm like setting, kind of like a tiny gym. For the time being it's my new home. There are 50 cots spread out, side by side. Other than a bite of that disgusting cheese sandwich, I haven't eaten or slept. All I want to do is call my parents to let them know I'm alive, and for them to relay that news to my sons. And then eat whatever horrendous food is available, crawl on top of my cot, and drift off to sleep.