Science Goes to Prison
WHICH of us does not admire what Lycurgus the Spartan did? A young citizen had put out his eye, and been handed over to him by the people to be punished at his own discretion. Lycurgus abstained from all vengeance; but on the contrary instructed and made a good man of him. Producing him in public in the theatre, he said to the astonished Spartans: I received this young man at your hands full of violence and wanton insolence; I restore him to you in his right mind and fit to serve his country.’
— EPICTETUS
I
THE frequent riots that have occurred in various American prisons within the past few years have created in the public mind a conviction that something is vitally wrong with our prison system. Criminals, after all, are human beings, and we are beginning to realize that nothing short of an unbearable affront to human nature could drive men to such desperate revolts. It may be, then, that the time is ripe to reconsider the fundamental objectives of our prison system.
The typical state prison, which most of us have seen only from the outside, is a monumental structure of steel, concrete, and granite, grim and forbidding — a fortress symbolizing to the average citizen his protection against the enemies of society. Just how great is this protection? So long as the criminals who are now in prison remain there, society is safeguarded against these particular offenders; but it is only a temporary protection. Prison doors swing both ways; sooner or later 90 or 95 per cent of these convicts will return to society. If these men go free merely to continue their former mode of life, then society has not been protected in any fundamental way and the public’s faith in its prison system is sheer delusion. A prison system which isolates criminals for a few years without reforming them fails utterly to achieve true social security. In a very real sense, therefore, society has a large stake in the genuine welfare of its prisoners.
Few people realize that our present system of imprisoning wrongdoers to punish them for their crimes is an innovation of comparatively recent origin. Until the close of the eighteenth century the almost universal way of dealing with offenders was to apply some form of drastic, painful, corporal punishment. It was not until about the time of the American Revolution that Western civilization began to abandon the stocks and pillories, the floggings, mutilations, brandings, ducking stools, and other cruel and brutal punishments which had been the common lot of criminals for ages past. By the middle of the nineteenth century imprisonment had become the conventional method of dealing with criminals in Europe and America. This marked a significant advance toward a more humane solution of the criminal problem, although the advance was not as real as many people suppose. The prison system was introduced by Quaker reformers with the hope that it would put an end to the bloody and revolting forms of corporal punishment which then prevailed, but their hopes were destined to be frustrated. As the new prison system developed, it made use of almost all the old methods of torture as aids in enforcing discipline.
It is not generally known that stupid and cruel punishments are the rule rather than the exception in American prisons to-day, yet it is so. That such conditions can be tolerated in the twentieth century is not surprising when one recalls how little the public hears of what goes on behind prison walls. When frightful riots occur and the newspapers chronicle the slaughter in glaring headlines, the average citizen becomes panic-stricken. Without pausing to look beyond the surface facts, he immediately suspects that the prisoners have been given an inch and taken the proverbial ell, so he becomes the champion of still harsher measures. Thus thousands of good citizens still repeat that hoary injunction, ‘Make prisons terrible.’ In this the public is turning its face to the past, placing confidence in a system which has been tried and found wanting. In England, at a time when more than two hundred crimes were punishable by death, crime flourished to an exceptional degree. Again and again the impartial verdict of history has proved conclusively that unduly severe punishment is not a deterrent to crime.
The trouble, of course, lies with the unthinking public. The erroneous belief is commonly held that the criminal is a person apart, that he belongs to a distinctly separate class of humanity. By his criminal behavior he is thought to have forfeited all claim to the consideration of decent people. Once he is put safely behind the bars, the public would rather forget about him. It is not strange, therefore, that prisons have never been adapted to the reformation of men.
The ordinary prison is a place for punishment, not for reform. Actually, it turns convicts loose upon society more dangerous, more anti-social, than they were when they entered. ‘I left prison,’ writes a typical ex-convict in his autobiography, In the Clutch of Circumstance, ‘ with a feeling of bitterness and of hatred in my heart. . . . Almost every man with whom I came in contact while in prison expressed the same feeling. . . . He was “going to get even” and “make somebody pay” for his punishment and suffering.’ By such tangible evidence our present prison system stands indicted. Each year out of those heavily barred gates come social outcasts by the thousand, some of them hardened repeaters, but by far the larger number of them young men whose prison experiences occurred at that time of their lives when impressionable characters were receiving their permanent set. These men are not reformed — quite the contrary; within the prison walls they have actually been schooled, at the state’s expense, in the higher learning of crime.
II
The fact is obvious that our handling of criminals in the past has been dictated almost entirely by fear. In an age of science we continue to deal with this problem on the basis of the archaic knowledge and the outworn methods of the pre-scientific age. We are just beginning to realize that crime is essentially a socio-medical problem; modern penology is on the right track when it views the criminal much as the doctor regards his patient. Recent developments in psychology, psychiatry, and sociology have provided us with a new understanding of the criminal mind and how to deal with it. Instead of punishing the wrongdoer, the new idea is to try to cure him; instead of making the punishment fit the crime, the new procedure is to make the treatment fit the criminal. It follows that the term of a prisoner’s incarceration cannot be too arbitrarily set in advance; treatment must continue until a cure has been effected. If a criminal cannot be cured of his anti-social tendencies, he will have to be regarded as irreformable and permanently isolated from society as the victim of a dangerous and incurable disease.
Radical changes in our penal institutions will have to follow upon the adoption of these modern methods. The prison buildings of the past — grim symbols of punishment — will have to be abolished. In their stead we shall have to build a new type of prison plant, adapted in design and arrangement to the variety of problems with which it must deal. It must make provision for various classes of men with their different needs. It must be so constructed that each group can be classified and treated without danger of contamination from the other groups. The Bastille, which seems to have been the model for most of our existing prisons, has become an anachronism in this age of scientific penology.
Of course, the introduction of any new idea always arouses skepticism and suspicion, and it was not surprising that the new programme should have encountered strong opposition, particularly in its first stages. This was well exemplified in Massachusetts, a state which has always followed proud traditions of leadership in social policy and education. The state prison at Charlestown has long been a public disgrace and as far back as 1874 a movement was set in motion to abolish it. In 1876 it was actually abandoned and for six years was used as a warehouse, only to be restored to service again when, after fruitless efforts, no appropriations for building a new state prison could be obtained from the legislature. Despite this setback, the agitation continued, with Bishop Lawrence crying from the pulpit, ‘When will that dungeon, fit only for the Middle Ages, the State Prison, be razed?’ In 1922, Mr. Lewis Parkhurst, then state senator, speaking in defense of the first of the bills he introduced into the legislature to abolish the disgraceful, antiquated structure, said: —
I can do no more on Beacon Hill. Public sentiment must be aroused to change these unwholesome and expensive conditions. I appeal to all men and women who believe that even the most unfortunate have some rights which must be respected. I appeal to all those who believe that the supreme aim of prison discipline is the reformation of prisoners. . . . Whatever of strength or time or income I can possibly spare for public service will be devoted hereafter to this cause until this disgrace now attached to our Commonwealth is removed.
To make clear what an anomaly the old type of penitentiary is in this modern world, let me give a brief description of the appalling conditions encountered upon a recent tour of the Charlestown Prison. The building itself is an antiquated fire trap placed in a crowded urban section adjoining smoky railroad yards. The prisoners are confined — or, rather, entombed — sixteen hours out of the twenty-four, and twenty hours on Sundays, in cubical cells of solid granite, arranged in tiers one above the other. Each of these tiny vaults serves as a combined bedroom, dining room, and toilet, for the building is not equipped with plumbing and it is the only prison in the country which has no mess hall. At noon one witnesses the curious spectacle of long lines of men being served their dinner through holes in the kitchen wall; then they must march with their plates of food back to their cells to eat it. It is impossible to provide proper ventilation in these stone vaults; the only air and light that the prisoners receive come through the partly grated door, and the air is always filled with smoke and coal gas from the railroad yards.
In February 1931, 962 men were crowded into this prison which has a cell capacity for only 750. To take care of the overflow, two and sometimes three men had to be confined in cells which were intended for only one. Cots lined the corridors; the schoolroom had long since been turned into a dormitory. There is only a small recreation space and the hospital facilities are quite inadequate. Within the walled enclosure there are various prison shops where industrial work is carried on, but these shops, for the most part, are badly lighted and poorly ventilated, and are so constructed that they would be quick prey to flames. The prison has a punishment block — a row of dark cells containing no beds or any other equipment. Those prisoners who are found guilty of serious violations of the prison rules are sentenced to the ‘ Blue Room,’ which is in effect a sweat box, for the heat is turned on to steam the ‘life’ out of the offender. The prisoner’s only resting place in this torture chamber is a small heap of sawdust in one corner, where, stripped of his outer clothing, he can only lie huddled to await his release. In all the punishment cells the food is limited to bread and water. It is only fair to add, however, that the prison authorities have a reputation for treating the inmates with justice and consideration.
Recently a case-work programme has been begun at Charlestown with the financial backing of the Rockefeller Foundation and the enthusiastic support of Warden Hogsett. Obviously, however, it is quite out of the question to institute any scientific system for the individual treatment of prisoners under conditions now prevailing. Indeed this prison, like hundreds of others, is totally unsuited for the purposes and objectives of an enlightened prison system.
At Charlestown no effort is made to train the convicts in the duties of citizenship. The intolerable conditions tend to store up in the inmates a feeling of degradation, sullenness, and hatred. No wonder that this prison has been characterized as ‘a sink hole of despair.’ Revolt was threatened in 1928 and 1929, and the authorities have been in fear of an outbreak even more recently. One newspaper commentator epitomized the whole matter when he said, ‘No reforming influence, however humane and generous, would long survive in the atmosphere of such a place.’
The time is at hand — indeed, it is long overdue — for the public to realize that the old-line prison, established solely for the punishment of offenders, stands discredited and condemned as a costly failure. Sooner or later we shall have to come round to this view, not only for the sake of the prisoners themselves, but also for the sake of real social protection. In Massachusetts, as a result of agitation which has continued for more than half a century, it now begins to look as if Charlestown might soon be abandoned forever. A new state prison has at last been authorized, and work upon it was actually begun on June 1, 1927, at Norfolk, twenty-five miles southwest of Boston.
III
For a study in contrasts let us journey down to Norfolk, where the new penal colony is already beginning to take form. The first thing a visitor notices is that Norfolk is entirely lacking in prison atmosphere. The buildings will be scattered over forty acres out in the open country, surrounded by a thousand-acre tract of woods and farm land. The project is being constructed almost entirely by prison labor, and as the programme progresses a large farm will be developed in connection with the prison. Here at Norfolk there is growing up a community which provides the convicts with constructive work to do, affords them opportunities to discover individual interests and aptitudes, and sets before each man a definite goal to be achieved. The basic idea is not to coddle the prisoners, but to treat them like men.
To this end the institution itself — its physical plant, its equipment, its programme — is being adapted to further the individual needs of the inmates. A style of architecture has been chosen which, while adequate for security, is also admirably suited to the new educational and therapeutic purposes. As Superintendent Gill says: —
We have developed a social, medical, psychological, and educational technique in addition to the industrial and the religious, when trying to solve adult social problems. To attempt to apply these techniques in a prison of the Pennsylvania or the Auburn type would be like asking a modern surgeon to operate on the kitchen table. It can be done if necessary, but the best results undoubtedly can be obtained where the facilities and the equipment match the methods employed.
Norfolk, although a walled prison, will have little in common with the penitentiaries of the past. The inmates will be divided into three groups: first, the high-grade ‘trusties’ who can be absolutely depended upon for coöperation as members of the prison community; second, the average ‘trusties’ who observe the honor system reasonably well; and third, the men who are harmless but weak. There will be eight buildings, each divided into three units adapted to the needs of the different classes of prisoners. It is even planned to divide the Disciplinary Building and the Receiving Building (the jail) into similar sections for classification. Eventually the prison will be able to take care of 1200 inmates.
The first building to be completed is now occupied by 150 Grade A men. Architecturally, it resembles a college dormitory, for the doors and windows are not barred, nor is it equipped with any other special devices for security. Each unit, of which there are three, contains twenty-five single outside rooms, three seven-bed rooms, one four-bed room, two officers’ rooms with bath, a toilet and shower bath on each floor, a common room, a dining room, a barber shop, a locker room, and a basement workroom. The hospital will be modern in every respect, with separate departments, laboratories, and special equipment for psychiatric work. The school will be carefully designed for adult education. Various shops will provide many different kinds of industrial work. There will also be a building for religious, recreational, and social work. These, together with the usual administrative and service buildings, will comprise the group inside the walls. Outside the walls an athletic field and the prison farm will be a sort of honor camp for the most trusted prisoners, as well as for the sick and infirm whom it will be safe to allow outside the enclosure.
The organization of the prison provides for a sharp cleavage in function between the line officers and the staff officers. The sole duty of the line officers is to man the walls, which are guarded day and night with all the known devices for preventing escapes. Outside the walls a guardhouse is the headquarters for police reserves. These line officers do not come into any contact whatsoever with the prisoners except in emergencies. The daily work of the prison is supervised entirely by the staff officers, who specialize in a variety of functions. Small groups of not more than fifty men each are housed and fed separately under the direction of a house officer and an assistant. Each personnel officer stays on duty with his men fourteen days, engages in case work with his men for seven days, and is then off duty to live with his own family for seven days. Superintendent Gill testifies to the efficacy of this plan: ‘The greater ease in understanding and handling inmates and their problems in small groups has been amply demonstrated, and the plan of having house officers live with the men has had a most desirable effect.’
According to Dr. A. Warren Stearns, Commissioner of Correction of Massachusetts, the staff of a prison should be like the staff of a hospital and should include a generous number of physicians, psychiatrists, and social workers to study and diagnose each prisoner’s case individually. Dr. Stearns hopes to establish a central clearing house where the records of all felons can be studied, their case histories carefully analyzed, and each prisoner assigned to the institution that is best suited to his needs. The hardened, habitual criminals would then be regarded as ‘custodial cases’ and would be permanently segregated. Special institutions already exist for defective delinquents and for the treatment of other groups such as the psychopathic criminals and the alcoholic and drug addicts. The new prison at Norfolk is designed solely to concentrate upon the tractable, promising type of criminal who can eventually be restored to good citizenship by the proper therapeutic treatment.
Thus at an institution like Norfolk petty discipline gives way to careful treatment of each individual convict. The old, costly, and futile methods of dealing with all criminals in the mass are entirely abandoned. How great is the improvement of the new system over the old is made at once apparent when we read this letter written in 1919 by an inmate of the Missouri Penitentiary: ‘We have dements, morons, high-grade imbeciles, sex perverts, syphilitics, consumptives and epileptics, and God knows what, but law and religion lump them all together, label them sinners and criminals, and prescribe punishment as a cure for the job lot.’
A recent gift of $55,000 from the Bureau of Social Hygiene, a Rockefeller foundation, will finance the development of a case-work programme at Norfolk over a five-year period. This will enable an expert sociologist to make a study of the individual history of each inmate and then chart a programme covering each prisoner’s needs as to health, education, vocation, avocation, recreation, and future plans. These charts are then turned over to the house officers to be put into operation during the term of each man’s incarceration. By the time these prisoners are released it is hoped that all of them will have received enough help and direction to restore them to useful life. ‘The entire programme of the institution,’ says Superintendent Gill, ‘in all its activities has been given an impetus and a vitality not otherwise possible. Cooperation and constructive service instead of opposition and destructive enmity, on the part of both inmates and officers, continually break through the traditional prejudice of keeper and convict. And it is through such rifts in the old armor that one glimpses the normal, human, living body, the restoration of which is the aim of our whole endeavor.’
IV
Work is probably the principal means by which to effect a prisoner’s restoration, yet, strangely enough, most prisons are bedeviled with the problem of idleness. Austin H. MacCormick, Assistant Director of the United States Bureau of Prisons, is authority for the statement that no prison in the country has a programme of vocational education worthy of the name. This condition of things, which has held true for years, is nothing short of criminal negligence on the part of the states. It is obvious that every convict ought to be taught a useful trade so that he will be able to provide for himself when he is returned to society. If adequate training were available, most prisoners would then, for the first time in their lives, be fitted to find a place for themselves in the industrial world. For this reason the passage of the Prison Industries Bill by the Seventy-first Congress marked an epoch in American prison history. This bill provided for a system of diversified industry in all Federal prisons and sanctioned the payment of wages to convicts for their work. In this the Federal Government has set an example which is bound to be imitated sooner or later in the various state prisons.
At Norfolk this important matter has already received the attention which it so urgently demands. While the new construction work is under way the men are obtaining excellent training and experience in the different building trades. Some of these men, after being released, have already been placed in well-paying jobs. To supplement the practical experience which the prisoners have thus secured, ten weeks’ courses have been offered them in carpentry, masonry, plumbing and steamfitting, electrical engineering, and automobile mechanics. The convicts have also been encouraged to develop interests of their own, such as gardening and poultry raising.
Through these various means Norfolk is giving its inmates eight hours’ work a day, fostering in the men habits of industry and regularity; and it is safe to say that many of these convicts have, under this system, learned for the first time what a genuine sense of satisfaction comes to a man from work well done. By such methods Norfolk Prison is transforming social liabilities into social assets, and salvaging human material which would otherwise be irretrievably lost.
V
To achieve similar results elsewhere will be equally possible, given these same new objectives, a properly trained staff, and modern prison buildings equipped to employ scientific methods. Indeed, the same general trend is already beginning to manifest itself in a few chosen areas. In New York, for instance, under the leadership of Governor Franklin D. Roosevelt, money is being liberally spent on new penal institutions designed to serve the purposes of segregation, classification, and individual treatment. Governor Roosevelt’s programme looks toward the eventual abolishment of the old walled prisons except as places of detention for the hardened criminals who have proved themselves to be hopeless incurables. Sing Sing, Dannemora, and Auburn will remain for this purpose and will also be kept in use as temporary quarters for first offenders while they are being studied, segregated, and charted for treatment. Then these new men will be distributed about among the new prisons, each criminal being sent to the institution which is best equipped to deal with his particular case. Some of these new penal colonies will have no walls at all, but will resemble army cantonments; these will naturally be reserved for those prisoners who have demonstrated that they can be trusted to the greatest degree. Only last winter the Lewisohn Commission made a report to the New York legislature in which it put itself on record as favoring such a system of constant personal study and individual treatment of prisoners.
New Jersey is also tending in the direction of the newer methods. In this state political influence has recently been eliminated from the management of the prisons and their administration has been placed in the hands of capable experts. The state prison at Trenton has a classification board consisting of a psychiatrist, an educational director, the prison physician, and the head keeper, who discuss the case of each convict and, by pooling their observations, try to determine which industry in the prison is likely to be the best for him. It is true that these efforts are partially thwarted by a lack of variety in the industries available at the prison, but the plan is praiseworthy and marks a significant step toward scientific analysis and individual treatment.
There is nothing more certain about prisons than that the old methods, based solely upon punishment and social revenge, have proved futile. If Norfolk Prison and the ideas of Governor Roosevelt arc symptomatic of the future, then offenders will hereafter be sent to prison not to be punished (except, of course, that loss of freedom is no small punishment in itself) but rather for the good of everyone concerned — that of society at large and of the delinquent himself. It is likely that all future criminals will receive genuinely indeterminate sentences. Prisoners will be discharged only when they have demonstrated their capacity to adjust themselves to society, and not before. The offender’s term of imprisonment will depend upon his growth in character.
The wardenship of a great prison will, in future, cease to be the reward of a politician. This work of rebuilding men will require administrative heads whose character, training, and qualities of leadership are equal to the demands of so difficult a task. Already we can see tangible evidence of a definite trend toward this new penology. It is actually in process of evolving from our present penal system, slowly in some respects, more rapidly in others. All in all, the day seems to be at hand for a more rational approach toward the whole problem of crime and for a genuinely scientific attempt to reclaim a large part of the human wreckage which drifts each year through our courtrooms into our prisons.