![]() ![]() Outside, two inmates are sweeping up trash near the barbed-wire fence, shivering in their orange jumpsuits. The sky is black there’s a light rain falling. Presiding over the scene is a blue-uniformed guard, a warning hanging from his Plexiglas partition: no firearms, ammunition, knives, drugs, alcoholic beverages or recording devices permitted on Rikers Island. There’s a rusty old vending machine against one wall, and along the other, a bank of blue plastic chairs where wives and mothers wait for their men to be released, watching Oprah reruns in shared silence. ![]() Broken pay phone, roachy floors, harsh fluorescent lights. The processing room at the New York City Correctional Institution for Men is about as depressing as you’d expect.
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