Death, Yes, but Torture at Supermax?

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A new federal lawsuit alleges that officials at America's most famous prison are legally responsible for the suicide of an inmate.

vega 1-legs.jpgJose Martin Vega's body remains shackled post-mortem. (Fremont County Coroner's Office)

Jose Martin Vega was no saint. Convicted in 1995 of 15 counts of racketeering and armed drug trafficking, he was sentenced, at the age of 20, to four consecutive life sentences. Nine years after his conviction, and after a violent confrontation at another maximum security federal prison, Vega found himself at the United States Penitentiary -- Administrative Maximum ("ADMAX" or "ADX") near Florence, Colorado. As its name suggests, this lonely place is where America sends many of its most troublesome prisoners.

Vega first came to ADX on April 5, 2004. Six years and 26 torturous days later he was dead -- at the age of 35. On May 1, 2010, using a bed sheet, Vega hanged himself in his cell in the control unit of the prison, an especially isolating part of the facility. Although Vega was not shackled when he hanged himself, the photos contained in the coroner's report show an unconscious man shackled at the hands and feet while prison officials are administering rescue efforts. At ADX, in the control unit especially, even the dead or dying are shackled.

Fremont County Deputy Coroner Carlette Brocious estimated the time of Vega's death at 9:10 a.m., but she noted in her report that "the scene of the death was 'cleaned up' when I sought to go out to the prison to finish my investigation. Therefore, I was unable to go to the scene of the death, see the cloth utilized as a ligature or talk to anyone other than the attending PA [physician assistant] regarding the decedent." She had first seen Vega's body hours later, at a local hospital, where it had been brought, still shackled, by prison officials.

Brocious also noted in her report that she talked with two prison health officials about Vega and was told by Mark Kellar, ADX's health administrator, "that the decedent had a long psychiatric history. ... As to whether or not the decedent had ever attempted suicide previously neither men could tell me." That "psychiatric history," and how ADX officials dealt with it in Vega's case, is at the heart of an important new federal lawsuit that seeks to dig down deeper into ADX's mental health policies and practices.

Why should we care about how our most difficult prisoners are treated? Why should we interfere with a "prison code," expressed or implied, that emphasizes both the use of official force and the denial of official help to humiliate and ultimately control inmates? The answers are both simple and complex. Because we tell the world (and each other) that we are an enlightened nation of laws and not a medieval land of barbarism. Because even our harshest prison isn't supposed to be the Tower of London.

THE PRISON

You probably know ADX better by its stage name, "Supermax," the forbidding place that houses such criminal luminaries as Terry Nichols, Ramzi Yousef, and Ted Kaczynski as well as hundreds of other, less notable prisoners. When I visited the facility in 2007 as part of a media tour that was carefully choreographed by the Bureau of Prisons, I found the place sterile and soulless. But the hard-ass approach to incarceration was obvious, right down to the tiny circus-like cages where some of the men -- one at a time, of course -- are permitted to briefly exercise.

Today, Supermax is the most famous prison in America, a worthy if far less visible heir to Alcatraz out in California. When 60 Minutes did a memorable piece on ADX in October 2007, Scott Pelley interviewed one of its former wardens, a man named Robert Hood. Pelley asked Hood why he had been so excited to come to Florence when the job opportunity presented itself. "In our system," Hood answered, "there's 144 prisons. And there's only one Supermax. It's like the Harvard of the system."

If anything, the past five years since Hood spoke those words have only heightened the national perception of ADX as some sort of forbidden fortress, America's chamber of secrets. Terrorist after terrorist has been deposited there since 2007-- most under Special Administrative Measures which largely preclude them from communicating to the world (or having it communicate back). Meanwhile, inside the prison, for the few guests ever allowed in, there is a place where you can buy ADX shirts and coffee mugs.

Supermax has nine different units, some more secure than others, and in that sense it's a microcosm of the nation's federal prison system. There is a unit for the terrorists, for example, and also one where prisoners have some measure of interaction with one another. But the Control Unit, where Vega lived and where his body was found, is the harshest. This is especially true for prisoners suffering from mental illness, who often are ostracized by other inmates even as they become more isolated by prison officials.

THE PRISONER

Generally speaking, unless you are an infamous terrorist, you have to do something bad in prison to make it to Supermax -- and then to its control unit. And Vega had. On March 13, 2003, while at the federal prison in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, Vega attacked an associate warden with a razor blade at the late-morning meal. Vega was subdued after a struggle, given an injection to render him defenseless, stripped naked, and then "assaulted by prison staff for a duration of at least one hour," according to an unpublished federal trial court ruling.

The Lewisburg prison health officials who saw Vega after the incident neither treated him properly nor adequately recorded his injuries. That same day, Vega was transferred to the nearby Allenwood federal prison facility, where authorities saw fit to place him on "suicide status." Soon thereafter, Vega was sent to the U.S. Medical Center for Federal Prisoners, located in Springfield, Missouri (the same place where the Tucson shooter, Jared Loughner, was more recently sent for pre-trial competency tests).

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Andrew Cohen is a contributing editor at The Atlantic. He is a legal analyst for 60 Minutes and CBS Radio News, and a fellow at the Brennan Center for Justice.

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