Shamar Betts' Tales from a Cell

It's been a long time since most people have heard from Shamar Betts. He has been in prison at the the medium-security federal prison in West Virginia since November 2021, but he has been incarcerated for nearly three years now. This time has been harrowing to say the least (scroll down to read about it in his own words). Yet he has been using his time as wisely as he can: reading, writing and thinking a lot about his future.

Every time I speak with Shamar I am impressed at how composed and thoughtful he his. It is absolutely remarkable given what he's been through. And with his release date approaching, he is finally ready to start speaking about his time over the past three years. Many of his stories are about the violence that he has experienced during his incarceration, so beware if you are a sensitive reader.

The following is one of several recent handwritten essays that was sent by mail. More of these essays will be released in the coming weeks. Please stay tuned and share these stories. They deserve to be heard.

Diesel Therapy

by Shamar Betts

Speaking about when he was first taken into custody at the age of 19 [June-July 2020];

Diesel therapy is a form of punishment in the United States in which prisoners are shackled and then transported for days or weeks; the term refers to the diesel fuel used in prisoner transport vehicles.

I’m not sure what I expected jail to be like, but I know it wasn’t this. My first two months confined were some of the worst days of my life. I spent 21 days in Madison County, Mississippi, where I was placed alone in a unit capable of housing at least 14 inmates. Before entering, the guard who’d booked me in put my picture on the door with a sign that read “Warning! Accompany inmate with 2 guards and 2 sets.”

Once we proceeded in he snatched a cord from the back of the TV and gave me two sheets (which had holes in them) and a mat that seemed thinner than a slice of cheese. The following day I was taken to an extradition hearing and to Medical for a physical. Immediately I realized what “2 sets” meant when the guards started shackling my wrists and ankles just to walk me down the hall.

I remember returning back to the unit slowly limping from the soreness of metal being tightly clamped to my ankles, as two guards walk on either side of me, giving strange looks. Finally one of them spoke and said, “There’s been a lot of talk about you in the break room. We ain’t never housed anyone that required all this shit. What’re you some type of terrorist? Did you blow some’n up?”

For a second I was taken aback by the question, then I replied simply saying that I made a post on Facebook after George Floyd died and people started rioting. I will never forget how long I stood there, waiting for them to stop laughing.

The rest of my days consisted of the same routine. I took every opportunity to ask questions when the guards brought trays 3 times a day. I read the law library for hours trying to make sense of what might happen to me. I’d cry myself to sleep most nights and others I would just lay in the dark talking to myself - might sound crazy but what else do you do when you’re on lockdown 24/7 for 3 weeks straight?

Relief surged through me once the US Marshals came to retrieve me. At my extradition hearing the judge had told me that I’d be returning to Illinois; instead I was thrown on and off planes for the next couple weeks. Each day I’d board a plane and fly all across the country, landing in different states to drop other inmates off to their destinations. I’d always get off at the last stop and spend a night or two in whatever jail was nearest to the airport. I still wasn’t allowed phone calls, commissary, or access to the general population - most of the time I didn’t even know what state I was in.

Everything changed when I arrived to Grady County, Oklahoma, which by far was the nastiest jail I’ve ever step foot in. Once we unboarded the bus, my and the other inmates’ noses cringed in unison as we entered the place. We instantly noticed the horse flies and roaches that crowded the area. Plus in the middle of a global pandemic no one was required to wear a mask. At the time I could not care less, I was just grateful to be interacting with others.

Instead of a regular unit with separate cells, we were taken to an open room that had 36 bunk beds stacked up by 3’s lined around the perimeter. In the corner there were 2 toilets with a label on one that read “pisser” and the other reading “shitter”. Directly next to the toilets were 4 showers, and in the center of the room rested 6 tables.

I noticed how quickly everyone became segregated. At one table sat the Natives, another had Hispanics, and Whites. The rest of the tables were occupied by Blacks. We weren’t there 3 hours before an older Black man fell to the floor and began shaking uncontrollably, while gasping for air. Several people attempted to press the emergency button but there wasn’t any response. A few others tried helping by pressing down on his chest and whispering encouraging words, but none of it changed the outcome. The shaking slowed and his hand rested on his chest. The ones who crouched over him stood up, and we all crowded around this man watching him take his last breath.

Approximately 30 seconds later, nurses and guards rushed in, as if him dying was their cue to come in. The men were outraged. We all demanded they tell us the cause of his death since we had speculations that it was Covid related. They said he had some kind of seizure but they gave us Covid tests just to be sure. Two days later we found out 28 out of the remaining 35 of us tested positive for coronavirus.

The following days’ tension had risen at Grady, and suddenly everything hit the fan. You’d think it would be between inmates and correctional officers, but instead it was between the Natives and the Blacks. I was sleeping when the commotion began. All I remember is waking up to the sound of men screaming like 10-year-old girls, the sound of broomsticks snapping as they struck across people’s backs - it seemed like a scene from a movie. Blood covered the floor along with bodies from both sides. I seen some of the toughest men weeping as their heads were kicked around by one person, and their stomachs stabbed by the next. Suddenly the crowd started to disperse. People ran in every direction as if they no longer cared about the fight, but just getting away from the new group who joined.

Correctional officers forced their way in with riot shields, mace, and 12-gauge shotguns that shot rubber bullets. I tried covering my face from the stinging sensation coming from the mace but it did little help. I wasn’t sure if tears fell down my face from my eyes burning or because I couldn’t believe what I had just witnessed.

Coincidentally, on the day this essay is being released here, Shamar called and said that moments earlier one of his long-time prison mates had a seizure and died in front of him.

Shamar's release date is scheduled for June 13, 2023. He is required to immediately report to a halfway house in Peoria, IL, where he will still be under custody of the Federal Bureau of Prisons.