Missouri Prison Tech

Prison's a backwater, for sure, but developments and inroads by rights organizations and for-profit corporations have changed a few things for those of us on the inside. Our access to technology has made especially impressive strides. Here in Missouri, the introduction of tablets marked an apparent turning point in how the Department of Corrections meets the present.

Following a clunky start, prisoners in Missouri are able to do quite a bit on those tablets. We can now make phone calls, listen to FM radio, access public domain books, rent movies and TV shows, send and receive e-mail, research law, buy mobile games, listen to podcasts, subscribe to a news feed, and purchase music. A lot of the features cost money that many prisoners don't have, but having the free features beats having nothing at all.

Because the tablets don't offer even the most basic, firewalled internet access, quite a few people are enthusiastic about a newer app, Edovo, which appeared in the beginning of 2025. Edovo offers video, audio, and text on myriad topics curated for incarcerated users. There are MasterClass courses, guided meditations, LinkedIn Learning classes, Grow with Google videos, Veritasium content, <<link to OpenStax textbooks, prep courses for Modern States Education Alliance's CLEP exam, reentry resources, digital magazines, works of classic literature, WikiHow articles, and a lot more. In some ways, Edovo is YouTube (plus e-books) for prison, serving educational, self-improvement, and spiritual interests—and no cat videos.

The Reentry Center, where I work, has virtual reality goggles for Transfr career simulations. Anyone interested in exploring different fields of employment can make an appointment to test them out. The sims include: installing rooftop solar panels, plating a signature dish at a restaurant, demolishing a bridge, assisting with knee surgery, and numerous points in between. I've read about other states using VR to give prisoners pre-release virtual tours of transitional housing and simulations of activities that might induce anxiety, such as going to a laundromat or using self-checkout at a store.

The most recent addition to prison's tech landscape that I've learned about is a service called Beyond Bars AI. It's pretty much what you'd expect from the name. Artificial intelligence is everywhere else, so why not in prison? Paid subscribers get to e-mail prompts to an AI that responds directly to them via our tablets. Not everyone in prison can ask an outside friend or relative to play proxy for ChatGPT, so this service presumably saves people time and effort, and empowers the incarcerated person to do their own research.

Just last week, I learned that Beyond Bars AI introduced a voice feature, a concept that sounded a little gimmicky to me. By calling a phone number and saying your DOC number, state, and name, you get ten minutes with Nova, an AI ready to converse about... whatever, I guess. The call is charged to your account at the usual rate of 5¢ per minute, but the voice AI service is free until the end of the year.

I had fifty cents to lose, so I gave it a shot over the weekend. I have several people in my circle who say they're only too happy to relay my prompts to AI, but there was something undeniably appealing about using such a tool on my own. (Autonomy is a powerful thing.) The ten minutes flew by as I asked Nova questions and got not only the information I wanted but additional ideas I wouldn't have considered on my own. This might be my new Saturday thing—at least until free usage ends in 2026.

Nova got me thinking about possibilities. A large percentage of people in prison have undiagnosed mental illness, and there's virtually no way for them to get therapy to help overcome underlying issues that brought them here. Someone with an inclination and good funding could set up a valuable (not to say profitable) system to provide the incarcerated population with AI therapy sessions at no cost to them. The hardened convict, unwilling to risk vulnerability by exploring his feelings with another human, might open up to a nonjudgmental AI. I expect that a DOC implementing such a system would see its recidivism rate decrease. Violence and other antisocial behaviors in its facilities would likely go down, too.

This might be an audacious idea; I'm guilty of having those, from time to time. But what a fantastic benefit it could have for people inside and outside alike!

Technology is only as good as the intentions we wield it with. Tech advancements that have made it through the once impenetrable razor-wire barrier are significant. But much is yet to be desired. The pricing structures of a lot of these services isn't great. In many cases it's exploitative. Moving forward, we'll need to remedy that. A lot of the software is junk, too, so more quality control is called for. These are solvable problems.

Putting more automated processes in place could cut down on issues caused by chronic corrections staff shortages. Integrating systems to better manage administrative tasks—health services requests, case manager correspondence, and such—could ease staff members' workload. Adding access to tools that enhance prisoners' sense of autonomy would surely make prison safer and more beneficial for its residents, its employees, and society.

It's Life; Don't Make It Weird

In spite of prison etiquette's prohibition against asking about other people's time, a lot of guys either ignore or don't know the the rule. When they ask me, I get cagey. I don't like telling people about my sentence, especially short-timers.

What I'm about to say might seem strange to you, but having life without parole (LWOP, for short) used to not be a big deal. Yes, it's the stuff of nightmares and waking existential horror; I just mean that LWOP used to be more commonplace. Everyone I met, my first week in prison, had at least a forty-year sentence. I was just one more kid coming down with a lifetime on his back.

Here in Missouri, the Department of Corrections assigns each prisoner a custody score between one and five, which determines the security level of the facility they're housed. The state's level-five institutions are Eastern Reception, Diagnostic & Correctional Center (where I'm currently confined); South Central Correctional Center; Southeastern Correctional Center; Potosi Correctional Center; Jefferson City Correctional Center; and Crossroads Correctional Center. Being confined to any of these used to mean you were surrounded by level-five inmates—"the worst of the worst," as some say.

However, sometime in the 2010s, probably as a cost-cutting maneuver, the state changed its classification system by doing away with custody level four. Call it "creative placement." The DOC reclassified every level-four inmate and transfered more than a few. Most former level-fours were bussed to maximum-security prisons, to serve time alongside lifers and death-row residents. Those of us who'd been in the system for a while felt the sea change.

Fights and other violent incidents spiked. Drug use worsened. Gang activity increased. Administrative segregation (aka, "the Hole") filled up to the point of needing expansion. The great irony of these circumstances was that it wasn't longtime level-fives causing the ruckus. The former level-fours, mostly younger people, with their comparatively minor offenses and shorter sentences, ran wild while the elder convicts shook their grizzled heads in bewilderment. Codes of conduct went out the window. Over the next ten years, Missouri prisons became the Wild West.

I work with guys who are on the verge of release. Most are within a year of the door. If they found themselves in my shoes, some prisoners say they'd have a hard time dealing with people who are preparing leave. I don't. As I blogged about before (in a post entitled "The Staggering Heartache (or Not) of Coaching Returning Citizens"), helping them actually makes me feel good.

There are awkward moments, though. For instance, during a momentary lull in our Career Exploration class last week, Adam, a quiet, easygoing guy in his mid-twenties, spoke up to ask, "Hey, Byron, how much longer before you get out?"

Our lesson was about the importance of professional networking, so his question might've come from a desire to practice shop talk. Realizing that Adam is only a few months from his release date, I wondered how to tell him without making him feel guilty for broaching a potentially touchy subject.

My reply ended up being a sly demurral, followed by a speedy return to the curriculum: "Okay, we were talking about mentors. What are some ways that we can reach out to people who can help us in our careers?"

At the end of class, everyone gathered their folders and journals and made for the door. Adam hung back. He approached me with a look of nervous contrition. "I shouldn't have asked that," he said. "Brett elbowed me in the side and whispered what was up. I'm really sorry."

So Adam's classmate answered the question for me—kind of a thoughtless move. If I wanted the length of my sentence to be a secret, someone spilling the beans could've caused serious offense. Fortunately for Brett, it's not for my own benefit that I keep my time on the down-low.

Poor Adam couldn't have predicted that he wouldn't want to know the answer. Now the disparity of our sentences loomed over our conversation. He felt bad for bringing it up. This is why I prefer that people not ask.

As much as anyone can be, I'm at peace with the truth of LWOP. What never gets easier to handle are people's startled reactions. The phrase "life without the possibility of parole" inspires pity. (The same response probably greets the phrases "stage four cancer" or "aspiring novelist.") People who hear it act differently.

If there's a lesson to be learned here, it's to check your assumptions. Even in an echo chamber, no two people are identical. Perspectives differ across infinitely variable personal dimensions. My experience is not your experience; my time is not your time.

A Proxy Loss

I spent months watching Rodney Carr's case, before a judge this week shot down his claim of actual innocence. The decision came as a blow for Rodney and his legal team, of course, but even I, from my slight remove as Rodney's former coworker and close acquaintance, experienced the ruling as a gut punch.

Rodney was convicted of capital murder in connection with the death of a guard during a 1983 prison riot, but the consensus among others who were confined to Moberly Correctional Center at the time was that Rodney wasn't involved. He was in for stealing a car. He ran with a bad crowd, yes, but he was no killer. Guys he associated with did the deed while Rodney himself was reportedly elsewhere. This didn't stop officials from gathering false statements (which they later recanted) to engineer all the convictions they could and ensure that the unspoken message was widely received: This is what happens when one of you fucks with one of us.

Other than sharing similar charges and sentences, my case is almost nothing like Rodney's. I do believe that we're both innocent of the crimes we were convicted of. And for that reason, it's only been natural to talk with Rodney about our respective progress on the rough and winding road to justice. Who else could understand being wrongfully convicted, save someone who's living it?

Rodney has a good team of lawyers. (We even share one in common.) They've worked on his case for years. Monday's ruling came as a heavy blow for them as well. All those sleepless nights and early mornings spent reading, traveling, investigating, writing—all to end in a ruling seemingly cut and pasted from what the attorney general filed. I can't know how that feels.

What I do know is, on the verge of filing my own habeas corpus petition, arguing the minutiae of claims that the state withheld evidence, suborned perjury, and so much more, I am profoundly invested. I fear that, if Rodney couldn't win back his freedom even with newly discovered evidence, witness recantations, and proof of prosecutors' Brady violations, what might my own odds be? Do I have a chance, or is all this pining and striving for freedom a futile endeavor?

It's a dark thought. And it's a thought that, I remind myself, is ultimately meaningless. I am not Rodney Carr. His case is not my case. Rosy ideals of precedent notwithstanding, each decision made by the courts exists in a vacuum defined by particularities and unique circumstance. I have seen all-but-identical cases decided in vastly different ways, depending on (one may assume) whether or not a judge ate lunch before reaching their decision.

Justice truly is blind. She often can't see the facts when they're held right up to her face. But good reasons for hope still exist.

I have a team of lawyers working dedicatedly for my release from this unjust confinement. Nonprofit organizations have paid for experts to review evidence and examine new issues. Evidence that proves my innocence is mounting, and the legal mechanisms we can use to establish the truth are relatively clear. What happened in Rodney's case has no bearing on mine. I need to remember that.

2nd Opportunity at ERDCC

While serving a twelve-year federal prison sentence for financial crimes, Chicago native Augie Ghilarducci devised and taught a reentry program for his fellow inmates. His program became mandatory in the feds and is now taught in prisons and jails across the United States. Today, 2nd Opp (aka the 2nd Opportunity Program) seems to be his life. Augie travels around the country, functioning as an ambassador for the brand, which not only educates the incarcerated but provides support once they're out, in the form of personal mentorship and referral to much-needed reentry resources.

At Augie's in-person introduction to 2nd Opp a couple of summers ago, the topic excited his audience of ERDCC residents. That eagerness showed in the Q-and-A session that followed—as did their skepticism. When would classes start? Who was allowed to enroll? How could he assure them that classes would actually be held?

"They paid for the program," Augie replied, looking almost confused by the question. "I don't know why they wouldn't use it."

His experience in the feds must've been very different from what prisoners in this state contend with. The audience's doubt was justified. Like so many government entities, the Missouri Department of Corrections is infamous for reneging on promises. Foremost on my mind at the time was the DOC director's plan to reward prisoners' acts of exceptionally good behavior. That plan never took effect. Other people who saw Augie's presentation thought of the many features our Android tablets were supposed to have but didn't, including a means of communicating with medical staff and case managers, an interface for ordering commissary, and other useful apps. I don't have enough space here to list all the vows broken by the DOC.

Another matter is ERDCC's scarcity of structured self-improvement activities. To anyone hungry for a better life, 2nd Opp had obvious appeal: a twenty- to twenty-five-hour course that covers mental health, career exploration, financial literacy, professional development, and higher education—all to prepare students for the door. Despite its life-changing potential, the program seemed doomed to be just another carrot left dangling before our eyes.

And so it was. Two years passed without a peep about it from the prison administration. Even in a place like this, where aborted dreams are the stock in trade and the population clings to vain hopes, residents eventually forgot all about 2nd Opp. Well, most of us did.

A few weeks after I started my job in the prison's Reentry Center, I broached the subject with my boss. He expressed vague recognition of the program's name but couldn't say for sure. He furrowed his brow in thought, then grabbed his keys, abandoned his desk, and said, "Come with me."

We unearthed the 2nd Opp materials—five course DVDs, a facilitator's manual, and 500 student workbooks—from the back of a dusty storage closet. He flipped through a workbook. "This looks interesting," he said.

I pointed to Augie's photo on the back of one of the DVD cases. "Here's the guy who created the program. People got excited when he spoke about it."

"All this was locked in here before we remodeled the building! It looks like solid information. Why the hell haven't we been using it?"

That was my question all along. It took two months for the inquiry to travel up the chain of command, but bigwigs in Jefferson City eventually answered. They gave us an immediate green light to begin 2nd Opp classes here at ERDCC. My boss not only offered me the privilege of facilitating them, I even got my choice of partner to teach alongside.

I immediately chose Wade, a friendly, professional guy I brought onboard at XSTREAM last year, when I was still the team lead. I couldn't forget how well Wade and I worked together, nor how sincerely committed he is to helping people.

We had a WebX training the following week with Augie himself, certifying us to teach the class. He seemed as committed to the cause as when I first met him in the visiting room during his introductory presentation. The Path Forward, his video podcast, is available through our tablets, and its biweekly episodes put that commitment on display as he interviews people who've reentered society and found success. All around, Augie strikes me as being a nice guy. He even sent us T-shirts.

Our inaugural class started in October. We've got twelve students, all eager to learn, all highly engaged with our classroom discussions. As we move through the curriculum, Wade and I expect to touch base with Augie via WebX, as often as the Reentry Center staff can conveniently schedule meetings. Wade and I are eager to see where teaching takes us. More importantly, though, we might get to see our students lead better prepared, more hopeful lives.

Colleen Atwood, Where Are You?

Things change all the time—laws, governors, our understanding of the truth.... Today I wear the gray of a prisoner; tomorrow, who knows?

"What do you want to wear when you leave there?" someone recently asked me, and I froze, unable to give a response.

Leaving prison after any amount of time is a life-changing event. After more than twenty-four years inside, its significance can't be overstated. The state of Missouri has curtailed my day-to-day choices and provided my wardrobe for nearly a quarter of a century—twenty-odd years of gray pants and white T-shirts. To have my choice restored sounds great, but like trying to order dinner from the menu at Cheesecake Factory, the infinite possible choices intimidate me to the point of paralysis.

Clothing is a fraught issue for me. In school, as I struggled to understand what made things "cool" or "uncool," classmates invariably ridiculed my poor judgment. Once I entered my morbid teen years, every day was Halloween. My makeup and all-black wardrobe attracted not just mockery but violence.

Even without a good understanding of how, I was keenly aware that clothing played a big role in our daily performances. "Every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp-dresed man" aren't just cheesy song lyrics, they're recognitions of a truth: that how we drape our bodies in everyday life plays an important role in how we're regarded by our fellow humans. It's why uniforms and designer labels exist. It's why they use costumes in movies and theater. It's why the term "personal style" was coined.

In short, how we're dressed is who the world believes we are. Asking what I want to wear when I leave prison is akin to asking who I think of myself as being.

So who am I? Buddhist teachings caution against confusing the self with the skin bag we call a body. We're ultimately so much more (and less) than this crass material form suggests. For that reason, Buddhism aims at lessening practitioners' attachment to adornments such as jewelry, clothing, and hair, which reinforce our ego-clinging. (Hence, why Buddhist monks and nuns are bald.)

I don't mind wearing the same uniform day in, day out. In fact, having my identity defined by my character and actions, not by my clothing choices, is nice, in a way. It takes the pressure off. Going back to a world where I'm judged by my wardrobe means that I have to decide, to some extent, who I am.

For as long as I've considered the question, you'd think I'd have an answer by now.

I do know that I'm not someone who wears patterns or a lot of color, and I don't care for leisure wear, being uncomfortable in shorts and sweats alike. I may be closer now to fifty than to forty, but I'm still a weirdo. There's just less of an edge now. Teenage Byron could wear black velvet and thigh-high Docs to dinner; what's the age-appropriate, toned-down version of that look like?

I watch the Netflix series Wednesday and think, Gomez Addams was a snazzy dresser—would there be anything wrong with a pinstriped three-piece suit? Is that too much? Am I too much? And if I am, then what's really the matter with that?

When I brought this question up to a friend, he had some sage advice. "Whatever your raiment," he said, "appear as the person you are. That's not just good. It's better than good."

It's nice to hear that from a friend. What a shame that most people believe clothes make the man.