Prison's War on Paper

With the worsening problem of synthetic drug use in America's prisons, officials have started thinking of paper as a pernicious evil. Other states saw a rise in their incidences of K2 use (and overuse) as early as ten years ago, but Missouri's K2 problem became an epidemic at the same time as COVID-19 did.

K2 (known around the prison yard as "deuce" or "two") is nominally synthetic marijuana. I say "nominally" because so many chemicals are used to create it, its composition and, we can safely assume, its effects change all the time. Only its manufacturers know what's in the stuff—whatever works to get users high, I guess. A batch of K2 could just as well be wasp spray on a piece of paper, which someone then smokes. If the process sounds inelegant, its end results are even uglier.

K2 may not show up in standard drug tests, but I see its effects every day. Deucers stumble and droop and appear blinded by their stupors. Some of them twerk in slow-mo. Some of them mumble incomprehensible syllables from the floor where they sprawl. Some don't get back up. Overdoses are rampant. The prison's already understaffed medical department has to cancel or postpone normal operations a couple of times a day to deal with emergencies such as K2-induced nonresponsiveness or seizing. The worst part may be many deucers' reactions when they see another prisoner's collapse: "Man, he got the good shit! Where can I get some of that?"

More than half of US prisons have reacted by prohibiting prisoners from receiving paper mail, which could be laced with drugs. Instead, they use electronic mail. Missouri contracts with a so-called digital mail center in Tampa, Florida, to receive and scan prisoners' snail mail, then forward it to the mini tablets provided by Securus Technologies.

Less effectively, last year, Missouri also cut off people's ability to order books or magazines for their imprisoned loved ones. I can still place an order with Bookstore X, using my own money and a certified check, but they won't let you order the same thing for me from that same bookstore, because policymakers fear that the pages could be laced with synthetic drugs. I never knew a payment method could have such power!

Legal scholars have authored reams of papers dissecting the benchmark 1987 case Turner v. Safley as it applies to prisons' curtailment of correspondence and books sent to prisoners. They all seem to agree that electronic messaging and e-books are the solution to the flow of K2 into jails and correctional centers. I happen to agree. But there's no evidence that book bans or granting monopolies to for-profit prison telecommunications companies (Hi, Securus!) is effective in that regard. Missouri's book-ordering policy took place in 2024, yet the rampant overdosing continues. According to a recent episode of the Marshall Project's Inside Story, book bans to curb the prison drug problem are highly suspect.

There's no question that synthetic drugs have significantly changed prison culture in a very short amount of time. Before K2, the suggestion of bringing a computer—let alone a USB storage device—into a maximum-security prison would've practically got the police called on you. Computerized devices in this cloistered environment were considered a major threat to safety and security. The Department of Corrections and facility administrators believed such technology might be used to endanger an institution with the introduction of pornogrpahy, blueprints, maps, or other types of illicit information—to say nothing of laptops' ability to record audio and video, which is a whole other kettle of fish.

Anyone who entered a Missouri prison as a teacher or group facilitator had to print out hard copies of the class materials they wanted to bring in. In our digital age, this posed a significant inconvenience. It was also rather wasteful. Printing thirty color copies of a multi-page packet, for instance, seems far less efficient than simply copying a PowerPoint slideshow to a thumb drive and displaying it on a projector screen at your destination. Inefficiency like this is characteristic of virtually every circumstance involving prison, which just tends to make things difficult.

I never thought I'd see the day when a warden was more concerned with stemming drug use in his institution than with preventing violence or security threats. In a way, though, it's refreshing. There are human lives at stake, after all. Saving people from themselves is a more humane and admirable goal than simply striving to keep nude photos or maps of the state out of prisoners' hands.

Another Degree of Infamy

Another podcast addressed the death of Anastasia WitbolsFeugen last week. It went up on YouTube a few days later. Unlike last time, I had nothing to do with this one—Crime Junkie—because my legal team doesn't want any distractions as we prepare for a major court filing. I'm told that the Crime Junkie people did a fair job of discussing the case, considering they only had an hour-long episode. Just the same, I'm glad I didn't have to hear or see it.

As infrequently as I speak about my case, or about the senseless pair of deaths that preceded it, I feel that it's been more than enough. I'm tired of rehashing the same events, answering the same questions, and changing nothing, least of all the minds of people who think fact is subordinate to feeling. Arguing against that kind of stubborn ignorance is utterly exhausting.

I know I'll have to speak again, maybe next time in court. When that happens, I imagine it will be a high-pressure experience—even more so than the first time, and accordingly nervewracking. But at least it should be for a judge who won't be as easily swayed as some people by my onetime girlfriend's incoherent fictions. At least it should require no speculation. At least it should lead to something valuable—more so, anyway, than vacuous publicity.

The Goblin Wranglers of B-Wing

At the age of twelve, I knew magic. I knew spells, charms, and potions. I knew the rules of invisibility, flight, and future sight. Furthermore, I knew other schools of heroism and villainy—psionics, spycraft, vampirism, ninjitsu. I knew how mutants were made. Most importantly, I knew how to rally those with these powers, and together, we embarked on quests. Yes, I was a preteen game master.

Roleplaying requires players, and as an unpopular kid I didn't have many. The one campaign I ran was with my obliging cousin and a fellow nerd from Latin class. This didn't stop me from developing nonplayer characters and mapping out strange lands, nor from blowing whole summer job paychecks on game supplements from my neighborhood comic book shop. My lifetime of active RPG gameplay might add up to less than forty hours, but I know gaming.

Many years have passed, but I can still recognize roleplayers at a glance. (Who else has use for a twenty-sided die?) In prison, where roleplaying games are forbidden by policy, they're even more obvious.

The dauntless roleplayers in my wing use every opportunity to occupy a sagging plastic card table in the corner. Variously used for independent study, Bible group get-togethers, and the occasional loner eating a bowl of instant ramen, the gamers stake their claim there and set up camp, armed with sourcebooks, character sheets, pencils, markers, folders, charts, and dice. They spend hours at that table, quibbling over rolls and strategies. It appears they're operating in a different realm, in a world where they're stronger, better, more adventurous versions of themselves. In a sense, they are.

Their dice are made of soap that's been pulverized, liquefied, molded, meticulously shaved, etched, then coated with several layers of floor wax. No such elaborate craftsmanship would be necessary if the Department of Corrections simply permitted its residents to purchase RPGs. Alas, prison policy explicitly bans roleplaying. Dice of any kind are considered gambling paraphernalia, ergo also contraband. But life finds a way.

The RPG of choice in Missouri seems to be Palladium, a competitor to its more famous forebear, Dungeons & Dragons. Over time, somehow, different titles have trickled into the prison—The Palladium Role Playing Game, Rifts, Ninjas and Superspies, and more. Fans of D&D often call Palladium's rules cumbersome, but what Palladium sacrifices in fluid gameplay is balanced out by satisfying realism. The Palladium system has a smaller market share of the RPG world. It happens to be the one I bought as a kid. Surprisingly, it's also the one that many people in prison risk conduct violations to play.

Sometimes I overhear the B-Wing gamers in their questing.

"I pick up the donkey shit and put it in my bag," says one.

"You can't," the Game Master responds. "The bag's already full."

"Are any of the goblins hungry?" asks another player.

I learn that a crew of the creatures run a boat that the players want to take across the sea, and the players plan to supply food for the journey. I also learn that Goblins eat poop.

This is ridiculous, and I probably could've just left it out, but I think the absurdity speaks to an important point: this is what roleplaying looks like. According to the old-school gamers I've asked, the DOC imposed the RPG ban in the 1990s. Reading through Missouri case law and national law reviews didn't confirm this. It did, however, speak to the historical war between evidence and fear that surrounds roleplaying games in prisons.

In a quick search on LexisNexis, I found sixty-two articles that included the terms "Dungeons & Dragons" and "prison"—most of which appeared to scoff at arguments that D&D could incite gang violence or function as an escape tool. The articles cite the prosocial aspects of the game—how it fosters cooperation, rewards communication, and can serve as a nonviolent channel for players' emotions. A 2023 News Inside article by Keri Blakinger describes how D&D even allowed one death row inmate to cross prison's hard-drawn race boundaries and gain his sole form of daily human interaction.

To play the part of a daring magician, a heroic dwarf, or an intrepid elf, when your autonomy has been hijacked and your material sense of self stripped, could only impart a feeling of freedom. Roleplaying is an escape more engrossing than any book or TV show, and both safer and less expensive than any drug. For the gamers in my wing, who barely interacted before their campaign started, roleplaying is many things.

It was an excuse to improve his reading, says the Game Master. He remembers being functionally illiterate when he came to prison in 1996. Joining a campaign with some guys on his cellblock became his incentive to learn how to read. He praises RPGs for their potential to teach.

Another man describes his in-game character as a grownup version of his young son, who lives out of state and whose voice he hears only when he calls home on weekends. For him, gaming is a way to cope with the distance and feel a connection to his only child.

Not that every gaming story is a noble one. Most people probably just play because gaming is fun. Regardless, the value of RPG shouldn't be denied. If hiring some shit-eating goblins to take them overseas keeps these guys quiet and out of trouble, I say set sail.