Struggles and Survival in New Jersey’s Correctional System: A Firsthand Account

The Man Nearby

I first encountered Peter Rusch in October 2022 on North Compound, Unit 2-B Right. My transfer came after a Tactical Search Team (TST) raid on my housing unit, following a report of a contraband item. Given staff’s known disapproval of my writing—often focused on prison injustices—they swiftly placed me in administrative segregation, or ad-seg, a form of solitary confinement. I arrived with only the clothes on my back.

Peter occupied the adjacent cell. Through the narrow openings in our shared space, I observed him: tall, gaunt, with long dark hair and a disheveled beard, his glasses frequently slipping down his nose. He resembled the cartoon character Shaggy. Known to many on the unit for his mental health struggles, he had previously attempted suicide, though the circumstances of his prolonged ad-seg stay remained unclear to me.

Two traits defined Peter immediately: his compassion for fellow inmates and his defiance toward staff.

Upon my arrival, I lacked shower slippers, possessing only sneakers. After two days, I finally received permission to shower. Standing in the communal area, I hesitated, unsure how to navigate the space in my footwear.

An officer shrugged. “You gonna get in or not?”

From the next cell, Peter shouted, “Give him my slippers.”

The officer denied the request. Peter swore at him. Eventually, the hatch was opened, allowing Peter to hand over his slippers.

Later, after my shower, Peter’s tone softened. “You good, big bro? Don’t worry about it. Let me know if you need anything,” he said.

His gesture, small and routine, underscored the rare acts of humanity in an environment designed to strip them away.

You good, big bro? … Don’t worry about it. Let me know if you need anything.

by Peter Rusch, a former fellow inmate

The following day, Peter was due for kiosk access—a limited privilege allowing email or music downloads. However, staff failed to escort him, prompting him to shout for attention. Hours passed until an officer emerged, dismissing his request as “too late.”

Peter insisted on speaking with a supervisor, which the officer refused. When he requested mental health assistance, the response was a chuckle. “I want to kill myself,” Peter stated plainly.

Instead of support, the officer turned off the water supply to Peter’s cell. In response, Peter banged on his door—a sound that rippled through the block as others joined, creating a cacophony of metal clanging. The noise transformed into a palpable tension, a collective unspoken anguish.

Then, silence.

A sergeant arrived, knocking on Peter’s door. No answer. Through the food slot, she noted “something around his neck.” “He’s turning a color,” she announced, calling out, “Code 66!” Officers and medical staff rushed in. Upon opening the cell, Peter was unconscious but alive. They cut him down, and he regained consciousness, screaming. A physical struggle ensued as staff dragged him out. Loud thuds echoed as he was pinned to the floor. A restraint chair arrived, and a sergeant began recording the incident.

He was secured and removed after a struggle.

I watched from my cell as a mentally ill man, who had shown me unwavering kindness, was treated like a threat. I was transferred out the next day.

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