For close to three years, I served as an external independent decision-maker for B.C. provincial correctional facilities. I decided if a prisoner was guilty of breaking a rule, and I handed down the penalty. My job was to maintain institutional safety and rehabilitate behaviour. The reality is, it didn’t work.

The reality of prison hearings

The failure wasn’t due to a lack of structure. The ten prisons where I worked all had the same 28 rules governing prisoner conduct. The most common violations involved possession of contraband (which can include a homemade shank or prison brew) and threatening or assaulting staff or other people in custody.

When it was time for their hearing, prisoners were handcuffed and escorted to a small room by one or two guards, depending on the risk classification level. Inside, an officer sat at a desk, tasked with presenting the institution’s case. Behind a raised bench, the adjudicator appeared on a screen presiding over the room virtually as part of COVID-19 protocols. And trapped in the middle stood the prisoner — often shoulder-to-shoulder with the very guard who accused them. The atmosphere in the room was often one of “I gotcha.”

Of the 892 prisoners whose cases I heard, only 31 (3%) had legal representation. Most were self-represented, unable to find or afford a lawyer.

The average individual standing before me had a seventh-grade education; many struggled to read, and some were illiterate. Though I was tasked with verifying the validity of each guilty plea, few ever tried to challenge the institution’s evidence. Most walked into the room knowing they had already lost, even if they hadn’t committed the violation or had been put up to it — the risk of retaliation from an officer or a “heavy” (a high-level gang member) for not taking the fall simply wasn’t worth it. Spending more time in “the hole” had become their safer, better option.

There Is No Self-Defence Behind Bars

When prisoners were charged after an incident and awaiting their hearings, the institutions most often placed them in the hole — administrative segregation — making release from isolation their primary goal. When asked whether they would like to share their side of the story, many offered the same response: “No, I just want to get this over with.” Before they even reached me, the institution had battered them down by turning the key and walking away.

Inside “the hole”

Segregation — the hole — meant confinement for 22 hours or more a day without meaningful human contact for up to 15 days, and it was a penalty at my disposal. I understood it was inhumane, and for long periods amounted to torture, yet it was widely condoned and expected. Prison culture equated segregation with justice served.

Bound by the law, I had six penalties available to me, none of which addressed the root cause of the prisoners’ behaviour, restored trust on the range, or allowed for forgiveness. While I could issue warnings, restrict programs, impose extra duties (such as cleaning), limit their time out on the range, or forfeit earned remission (effectively extending their sentences), the ultimate punishment was segregation. I faced a revolving door of the most vulnerable individuals, the ones staff labelled “frequent flyers.”

I Was a Prison Judge — He Was 22

“Punishing harder” doesn’t work

The institution could rationally justify its position using policy and procedure, resulting in a finding of guilt, which carried consequences beyond the penalty I imposed. The impact on the prisoner was an internal record of misconduct that hindered their ability to apply for better conditions of confinement or early release, and if on remand, could prejudice their criminal trial.

Punishing Survival

If a prisoner appeared before me again and was found guilty of breaking a similar rule, established practice mandated the use of progressive discipline. This meant penalties escalated with each infraction — for example, moving from a warning or extra duties (such as a written apology) to restricted time on the range or a longer segregation sentence. But this did nothing to de-escalate tension or prevent the same reaction, starting the cycle all over again.

Every person sent to the hole eventually comes back out to the range, and inevitably, to our communities. When we choose isolation, we aren’t making prisons safer; instead, we are attempting to reintegrate traumatized people — who have been further damaged by the system.

Only by transforming how discipline is enforced can we begin to change institutional culture.

Author’s Note: The cases are drawn from my experience as an external independent decision-maker presiding over disciplinary hearings for BC Corrections (2021–2023). Identifying details have been changed to respect confidentiality and protect privacy.

This article was originally published by Law360 Canada (www.law360.ca) a division of LexisNexis Canada.

Explore the Terms: To better understand the institutional terms used in this story, you can explore my Beyond the Bars Prison Glossary.

Support the Cause: Support the rights and dignity of incarcerated individuals by purchasing a tote bag from My Store, where all proceeds go directly to Prisoners’ Legal Services.

Meet Harpreet: Harpreet Ahuja is a lawyer, human rights consultant, and social justice advocate driven by the conviction that systems need reimagining. Her work explores the intersection of law, policy, and lived experience — and tells the human stories behind injustice. Harpreet is based in Vancouver, Canada on the traditional, ancestral and unceded territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations, and publishes on her website.

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22 Hours a Day Alone in a Concrete Box was originally published in Fourth Wave on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.