This reporting is part of our partnership with the Virginia Center for Investigative Journalism.
As told by Louis, Hansen, VCIJ executive director
David Braxton was a small-time drug dealer in the late 1990s, shuttling cocaine and marijuana between New York City and Virginia.
One transaction turned violent. Braxton and his cousin were charged with beating to death another dealer in a field in Fauquier County. A jury convicted Braxton of the murder in 1998 and sentenced him to life in prison.
Braxton has spent the past 22 years behind bars. Now 45, he has overcome some of the challenges of incarceration: he earned his high school degree, took college courses, won accolades for his jailhouse poetry, married and planned a life outside. A few years ago, he was transferred to Augusta Correctional Center, a lower-level security prison allowing more educational and fitness programs.
The COVID-19 pandemic has added a deadly threat into packed Virginia prisons. The state chapter of the ACLU sued the Department of Corrections in April for failing to keep medically vulnerable prisoners safe during the health crisis. The ACLU and state officials negotiated a settlement that has led to the early release of more than 750 sick and elderly prisoners.
By early December, more than 5,000 Virginia prisoners had tested positive for the virus, and more than 30 had died. Deerfield Correctional Center, where older inmates are kept, has been hardest hit, with 19 deaths among about 840 inmates testing positive.
As of December 18th, 40 prisoners and 14 correctional staff have tested positive for the virus. Braxton fears for his health. He is seeking clemency from the governor, pointing to a stellar prison record and conflicting witness accounts of the crime.
Braxton spoke in late October about the growing concerns inside Virginia’s prison walls.
This interview has been lightly edited for length and clarity.
The conditions are very grim, to say the least.
We've been on lockdown (since) around March. At first, it was really intensive. Because we were just relegated to ourselves, we couldn't come out (except) for, like, 20 minutes a day to take a shower, make a five-minute phone call, and then go back in our cells.
They wasn't allowing us no contact. And then, I think about a month into it, then they started loosening up a little bit more. They did it tier by tier -- and then eventually it became the whole pod (section). We've been on modified lockdown to go out probably three times a week.
(Staying six-feet apart) is impossible to do in here. That's very impossible to do. The only time you can really do that is when you call to go to medical or the canteen. They have like, you know, footsteps painted on the ground where you got to stand six feet apart from each other.
You happen to be stuck in here all day with the same people, not being able to move around. You watch the news all day, seeing the body count. All that stuff.
I have a cellmate. It's a two-man cell. It's probably about 8 feet by 12 feet. The sink is right next to the toilet. It's probably about five feet away from the bed.
What's oppressing about this place, this particular place was built way back when. It has no A/C. Everything is still heated off of wood chips, believe it or not. In the summertime, it's very hot in here. When it's the wintertime, it's very cold.
When they built this institution, it was really probably for single males. Single cells, one person per cell. I guess over time, they needed to double up.
It's cramped. Two microwaves per pod. One kiosk where we can download music, one small ice machine, an ironing board. They provide us with some board games. A TV in the day room. And that's about it.
If COVID comes in here, all of us are going to catch it. I mean, we realized that because it just happened in Deerfield Correctional in Virginia, which is a level-two facility for holding inmates. We just saw that on the news. This is like a petri dish to get infected.
They provided some masks. If somebody's sick, they’ve got to record it, and then they isolate that person. There was a guy that was sick, and they quarantined him, but they eventually released him. I guess he had a common cold.
We get to go outside like three times a week. It's usually you know, sometimes an hour, sometimes over an hour. We go with our pods. They try to isolate us. You know, for most part, they sanitize the weights (and gym equipment); they spray them down and stuff like that.
We go to the gym once a week. That's the bare minimum that they can be doing. We should be able to get that every day. It just helps psychologically, just to get outside, instead of being cooped up all day long.
They took all our visitation from us so we can't see our families The only time we can see them is in a video visit. We can't have no contact. The only contact we have with outside people are the CO's (correction officers) and the canteen people that come in and work. If we're gonna catch it, it's gonna come by way of them, and they don't even get screened coming in. It seems like we get all the responsibility put on us, instead of the officers.
This is a structured environment, and for the most part, guys really need that structure.
Not being able to go to church or these other religions, it's kind of challenging. You can't get together with your larger group. And, you know, we rely on it.
We need some kind of, you know, spiritual and -- how can I say -- enlightenment or encouragement. You got guys that can’t go to AA classes or NA classes.
In my case, I can't get my associate's degree. Everything is on hold. And, you know, what hurts the most is us not being able to see our families. That's been really hard for months upon months, because those are the people that really bring rehabilitation into your life, because they know you.