For five days, Malikah Graves tried and failed to contact her brother, Karim, who was locked up in Denver’s Downtown Detention Center.

Video calls she scheduled were unanswered. Attempts to talk to jail staff didn’t work. Her worry about her brother escalated, especially because he has schizophrenia and doesn’t always understand what is going on around him. He’s been in jail since March and doesn’t understand the coronavirus pandemic, Graves said. Without the ability to advocate for himself, his care is left entirely to the jail’s staff.

“It’s somewhat of a nightmare because a million things go through your head when you can’t get in touch,” she said. “Are they on a lockdown? Did someone get COVID-19 in there? Is it my brother? Is it him?”

For the more than 30,000 people incarcerated in Colorado, the invisible threat of the virus seems inescapable in the jails, prisons and immigration detention centers where they live. With little information coming from many facilities, families are left with only worries about what’s going on inside. It’s nearly impossible to social distance in correctional facilities due to small living spaces. Incarcerated people don’t choose where they are living, who they live with and how they move through the buildings.

“Prisoners are terrified,” Boulder civil rights attorney Aurora Randolph said. “More than anybody else they’re not able to control what’s happening to them and they’re kept in the dark.”

In other states, outbreaks in correctional facilities have proven deadly and difficult to contain. The Cook County jail in Illinois is the country’s largest known source of coronavirus infections, according to an analysis by The New York Times. The analysis found that at least 1,324 confirmed cases and 32 deaths are tied to U.S. prisons and jails, though the numbers are likely much higher.

The virus has crept into the justice system in Colorado as well, infecting inmates, lawyers as well as dozens of prison and jail staff. Two weeks ago, it killed an El Paso County sheriff’s deputy who worked in the jail there.

Since in-person visitation is now banned in most facilities, it’s possible that some families will never see their incarcerated loved ones alive again, said Rochelle Bricker, whose husband is incarcerated at the federal prison in Englewood.

“None of these sentences are supposed to be death sentences,” she said. “If you want a death sentence, you need a second trial.”

Fear and lockdown in Weld County

Charles Peterson could barely walk when he was released March 30 from the Weld County jail.

He’d been locked up there since March 11 for a parole violation, but officials released him because a re-entry program, the Rock Found, agreed to accept him, according to signed legal declaration from the program’s director, Cheryl Cook, provided to The Denver Post by the ACLU of Colorado.

Peterson was immediately admitted to the hospital after his release. Two days later, he died died, according to Cook’s declaration. A later test showed he had COVID-19.

“We at Rock Found are mourning the loss of our friend, our family member, Charlie Peterson,” Cook wrote. “We await the end of COVID-19 crisis so we can have an end of life celebration for a man that worked so hard to redeem himself and create a better life.”

Weld County has become one of the focal points in the fight to protect incarcerated people from the virus. The county has one of the highest rates of infection in the state, and 16 Weld County Sheriff’s Office deputies have tested positive for COVID-19 along with nine jail inmates. The ACLU of Colorado last week filed a lawsuit alleging the sheriff’s office was not properly addressing the virus. The sheriff’s office filed a rebuttal Monday, stating it has “diligently, comprehensively, and appropriately addressed COVID-19 at the Weld County Jail.”

https://www.greeleytribune.com/news/weld-sheriffs-office-again-disputes-aclu-allegations-this-time-in-court/

But that’s not what it feels like inside, said Ralph Brewer, who was serving a 90-day sentence at the jail for driving with a revoked license until he was released early on April 3. He was quarantined at the Weld County jail after a brief transfer to the Larimer County jail for another case. But he was only quarantined for five days and was moved around multiple times during that period.

Brewer became sick after he transferred to a different housing pod, but he had to keep cleaning and cooking for other inmates despite his complaints to staff that he didn’t feel well. He tried to request a doctor’s appointment, but was instead given Tylenol and cough medicine and told to drink lots of water, he said.

“It was concerning to me but they wouldn’t do anything about it,” he said.

Even those outside of the jail and placed into community corrections are afraid. Every day after work, Raymond Mefford returns to his 15 foot by 15 foot room at Greeley’s community corrections facility that he shares with five others. All residents use the same touch-screen kiosk to check for messages, and they share four bathrooms.

“I have a guy sleeping 2.5 feet above me in a bunk bed, so that’s not social distancing,” he said.

Tensions are rising as more residents are trapped inside for longer periods of time, Mefford said. He’s supposed to be released by June 3. He hopes he can stay healthy until then.

“I’m fearful to go back there every day,” he said. “I have a daughter. I have a mom. I don’t want to get sick.”

Missed connections, little information

Zolo Anderson usually visits her daughter, Jamilyah Nelson, at the Denver Women’s Correctional Facility at least once a week. Losing those visits has been hard, Anderson said, but Nelson has been able to call home almost every day. During those calls, Anderson hears her daughter’s concerns about the guards not taking the virus seriously or the cellmate who is coughing.

“I pray about it, that’s the most that I can do at this time, besides praying that she gets out of there,” Anderson said.

In-person visitation and many educational and creative programs for inmates have been canceled to prevent COVID-19 from being introduced and spread through prisons. While that may be wise, it means incarcerated people are spending more time cooped up in their cells or housing units with little to do or look forward to.

“It’s a scary situation in prison for a lot of reasons,” Randolph, the civil rights attorney, said. “There’s the sickness, but I think people are scared of the mental health impact as well.”

Others with loved ones locked up have had very little communication. Bricker has not spoken with her husband since she last saw him in early March at the federal prison in Englewood.

Every day just before 3 p.m., Bricker logs onto her computer and waits for the U.S. Bureau of Prisons to update its webpage with information about coronavirus cases in its facilities. The website is the only place Bricker can get reliable, updated information about her husband’s facility, or those where others she knows are incarcerated. She calls the prison, but rarely gets anyone on the phone. If she does manage to reach someone, they can’t help.

“We don’t have any news,” she said. “If something happens to him, there’s no way of me knowing.”

Rumors and fear can run rampant among families when there is no information, said Sandra Freeman, an attorney who represents people incarcerated in jails and prisons throughout Colorado.

“Families feel so helpless because there is no solid information,” Freeman said. “It’ s really hard to remain in an action-oriented and positive spirit when there is no information from the prisoners or their custodians.”