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In the months before the coronavirus infiltrated the U.S., a 49-year-old inmate began drafting a letter inside the walls of a federal prison in Louisiana.

The man, Patrick Jones, had been locked up for nearly 13 years on a nonviolent drug charge. He hadn't seen his youngest son, then 16, since the boy was a toddler.

"I feel that my conviction and sentence was also a punishment that my child has had to endure also and there are no words for how remorseful I am," Jones wrote to U.S. District Judge Alan Albright in a letter dated Oct. 15. "Years of 'I am sorry' don't seem to justify the absence of a father or the chance of having purpose in life by raising my child."

Patrick Jones contracted coronavirus at a low-security prison in Oakdale, La. Courtesy of the Jones Family

Jones was arrested in 2007 after cops found 19 grams of crack and 21 grams of powder cocaine inside the apartment he shared with his wife in Temple, Texas. His wife testified against him and was spared a prison sentence.

Jones wasn't so fortunate. He was ultimately ordered to spend 27 years behind bars, in part because he lived within 1,000 feet of a junior college and already had a long rap sheet, mostly burglaries that he committed when he was a teenager living on the streets.

He was now writing the judge in the hope of receiving a sentence reduction through the newly signed First Step Act, which offered relief to some inmates convicted of nonviolent drug crimes.

"My child having his own experience of raising his own child would validate my life experience and give meaning to my existence in this world, because 83582-180 has no meaning," he wrote, referring to his federal inmate number.

"It is just a number to be forgotten in time. But Mr. Patrick Estell Jones is a very good person. Caring, hard working, free and clean of drugs and a lot smarter now, with a balanced outlook on life."

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The judge denied the request on Feb. 26. Twenty-two days later, Patrick Estell Jones was dead, the first federal inmate to die of the coronavirus disease.

He had contracted COVID-19 at the low-security prison in Oakdale, Louisiana, a penitentiary now dealing with the deadliest outbreak of any of the 122 federal facilities.

"He spent the last 12 years contesting a sentence that ultimately killed him," said Alison Looman, a New York-based lawyer who had represented Jones in an earlier bid for clemency. "Ironically, it seems it is his death that might finally bring his case some attention."

The U.S. has seen a movement in the past several years to reduce the sentences of nonviolent drug offenders, but criminal justice reform advocates say Jones' case illustrates the limits of the effort.

"You see everything that is wrong with our sentencing system in this case," said Kevin Ring, president of the criminal justice advocacy group FAMM, which stands for Families Against Mandatory Minimums.

Ring ticked off the series of factors that led to Jones' lengthy prison term: a questionable accounting of the amount of drugs he was selling, his apartment's proximity to a junior college, his decision to go to trial rather than take a plea and a criminal record that was made up largely of teenage offenses.

"He was no choirboy, but his life had meaning," Ring said. "I feel like his life was taken from him when he was sentenced, and then he was killed in prison, and both of those things should trouble us."

Jones' death also focused attention on the beleaguered prison in southern Louisiana. Five Oakdale prisoners have died from COVID-19, officials said, and so many have come down with presumed cases that officials had temporarily stopped testing them for it.

At least 18 inmates and four staff members have tested positive, according to the federal Bureau of Prisons, but prison union leaders say the real numbers are significantly higher.

"You're just afraid all the time," said an Oakdale corrections officer, who spoke on the condition of anonymity because he's not authorized to speak to the media. "You're afraid of catching it and bringing it home to your family. You're afraid of spreading it in the community."

The coronavirus pandemic has wreaked havoc on jails and prisons across the country. Last week, the Bureau of Prisons announced that it was locking down all inmates in their cells or quarters, with limited exceptions, for 14 days, but new cases keep popping up.

"There's a feeling of terror not knowing when this is going to end," the Oakdale staffer said.

Jones arrived at the prison in April 2017. It would be the last stop in a hardscrabble life that began in Temple, Texas.

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His childhood was marked by tumult. Jones was initially raised by a great grandmother, but he spent much of his preteen years at a group home for children and shuffling among relatives and friends, according to his clemency petition and a government court filing quoting an interview with him. He was on and off the streets during his teenage years, the clemency petition says.

His first run-in with the law came when he was 17, court filings say. Jones was arrested twice in two months on theft and burglary charges. He was charged as an adult and ultimately spent two years in prison.

Jones was released in August 1991, but he didn't stay out of trouble. He was arrested in May 1992 after he sold cocaine to an undercover officer, according to court records. Jones pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 20 years in prison.

He was released on parole in 2000 and eventually settled in an apartment in Temple, a few blocks from the local community college. Temple police officers showed up at his home in January 2007 looking for a woman on an outstanding warrant, court records say.

After discovering crack and powder cocaine inside the residence, they arrested Jones and his wife of two months, Sharon, court documents say.

The woman targeted by police wasn't at the apartment, but she was later taken into custody. The woman, Frances Whitlock, told police that she sold crack cocaine for the Joneses, averaging about five to 10 deliveries a day and sometimes as many as 30, court documents say.

Sharon Jones agreed to testify against her husband. At his trial, she testified that they had been selling the drugs for about two months. She said they would sell a half-ounce of crack every other day, earning about $1,000 every day, court documents say.

The jury found Patrick Jones guilty of possession with intent to distribute at least 5 grams of crack cocaine. His wife received a term of three years' probation after the government recommended a reduced sentence, citing her cooperation, court filings say.

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At his sentencing, Jones was held accountable for 425 grams of crack — 22 times the amount that was in his apartment — based on the testimony from his wife that they sold a half-ounce every other day from Thanksgiving 2006 until they were arrested in January 2007.

The government also used several other factors to enhance Jones' sentencing guidelines: his apartment's proximity to Temple College, his role as an "organizer" of criminal activity for enlisting Whitlock to deliver the drugs, his decision to fight the charges at trial and his offenses when he was 17 and 21.

In the case of his previous arrests, the government treated each charge as a separate sentence, which had the effect of further driving up his sentencing guidelines.

Jones was sentenced to the minimum term under the guidelines, but it was still 30 years. His sentence was later reduced to 27 years after the U.S. Sentencing Commission amended the crack guidelines to reduce the disparity between treatment of powder and crack cocaine.

Jones' younger sister, Debra Canady, recalled being stunned by the severity of his sentence. "My brother made some bad decisions in life, but that doesn't make him a bad person," she told NBC News.

In the years after his sentencing, she remained in close touch with her brother, who wrote frequently, she said, asking for updates on the youngest of his three sons, Kyrell.

Jones filed a bid for clemency in October 2016, pointing to court rulings and changes in sentencing guidelines that would have directly affected his case. Jones' lawyers argued that had he been sentenced then, he likely would have gotten a term at least 10 years shorter.

"With good time credit," the petition said, "Mr. Jones would have already served his entire sentence."

The petition noted that he had no history of violence or ties to gangs, had spent his childhood "with no permanent home" and was a model inmate who worked his way up to head baker — "a profession he hopes to pursue upon his release."

In January 2017, his lawyers received word from the Justice Department's Office of the Pardon Attorney: The petition was denied.

Looman recalled that when she delivered the news to Jones, he immediately expressed concern about her and wondered aloud whether she might lose her job as a result.

"It is a telling example of what a kind and compassionate person Patrick is," Looman later wrote to his judge.

The First Step Act, signed by President Donald Trump in December 2018, offered Jones a glimmer of hope.

In his motion for a sentence reduction under the law, Jones' lawyers said shaving years off his prison term would "support the mandate from Congress and President Trump to reduce unnecessarily lengthy sentences for defendants like Mr. Jones."

Prosecutors took a starkly different position, emphasizing his previous convictions and his "leadership role" in his "'crack' distribution enterprise."

"Jones was not a small time crack dealer whose sentence far outweighed the scope of his criminal activity," prosecutors said in court papers.

The judge, in a ruling filed in February, sided with the government.

"Jones is a career offender with multiple prior offenses and a history of recidivating each time he is placed on parole," Albright said in his order.

"Though the bulk of Jones's offenses were committed at age 17, Jones displayed his continuing criminal tendencies by committing offenses each time he was released from custody."

Albright couldn't be reached for comment.

Looman didn't handle Jones' effort to get relief through the First Step Act, but she kept in touch with him via the federal prison email system.

"Happy New Year to you and may this year bring great things your way," Jones wrote to her on New Year's Eve.

On Feb. 27, the day after the judge's ruling, Jones sent her a message that made it clear that he had yet to get the news.

"I've just been awaiting to hear something good for a change as far as legal issues go," Jones wrote, adding: "But I have not got anymore info to what may be coming forth It's been a lot of movement around here lately I hope I'm in the making for that kind of release also."

The following month, Jones and Looman exchanged messages that referred to the coronavirus. The deadly illness was sweeping across the U.S., and there were escalating concerns of outbreaks inside detention facilities.

"I am doing well as fare [sic] as coronavirus goes and staying safe and healthy," Jones wrote March 14, five days before he would complain to Oakdale staffers about a persistent cough, according to federal prison officials.

He went on to say in his message to Looman that he had found out the judge ruled against him, which was news even to Looman, and he revealed why it had taken him so long to get word: His lawyer had left the public defender's office two months earlier.

"I talked to the head person and he said it was on him that I was not contacted and that he was going to get his people on top of the appeal," Jones wrote.

"Anyway, enough about my problems. Are you likening [sic] the work from home thing?"

Looman replied a few days later.

She never heard back.