Day 4: A Lawyer's Insights from Federal Prison: Getting Transported as an Inmate

The first time I was transported in prison felt like stepping into a dystopian nightmare. The memory is etched into my soul. Looking back, I realize I was one of the fortunate ones—only 10 days in the Miami facility before being transferred. That’s practically a miracle. Some women were stuck there for months—five, eight, even ten—trapped in limbo. Some waited for sentencing, others for transfer orders. Everyone waited, and waiting is its own form of punishment.

The process was cloaked in secrecy, designed to prevent escapes or outside interference. I understood the reasoning, but for us, it was a slow-burn torture. Each day, you’d hear a name called: “Pack up your stuff.” And every time, your heart would stop. Is it my turn? It was like living in a constant state of dread, bracing for an impact you couldn’t see.

When my turn finally came, it was late—around 10 PM. “Pack your things,” they said, no explanation, no warning. I scrambled to gather what little I had: unopened food, toiletries, clothes, shoes. By 11 PM, I was downstairs in Receiving & Discharge with 16 other women, all clutching their meager belongings, all staring down the same unknown.

The process was methodical, slow, and deeply degrading. One by one, we emptied our bags in front of guards who inventoried every item like it was a criminal artifact. They boxed it all up, leaving us stripped down to nothing but our issued uniforms. For the first time, I understood what it meant to feel powerless, reduced to a number in a system that doesn’t care.

Around midnight, they called my name again—this time, with my bunkie, Lucy. We were marched downstairs, stripped out of our uniforms, and handed paper-thin travel clothes: flimsy pants, a shapeless shirt, and rubber-soled socks. Then came the chains—handcuffs, a waist chain, and shackles around my ankles.

The weight of those chains wasn’t just physical; it was emotional. Standing there, bound and exposed, I felt a crushing wave of humiliation. I kept thinking, Thank God my kids, my family, my friends—they’ll never see me like this. That thought, fragile as it was, became my lifeline.

By 3:30 AM, we were herded onto a prison bus. The garage beneath the detention center was freezing and eerily quiet. As the bus pulled out, I caught a glimpse of the Miami streets—streets I had driven countless times in my old life. The surrealism hit me like a gut punch. Never, in a million years, had I imagined I’d leave that building this way.

And then, just before dawn, something shifted. As we neared Coleman, I looked out the window and saw the sunrise. It was the first sunrise I’d seen since entering prison. My name, Rashmi, means “rays of the morning sun,” and in that moment, those rays felt like a lifeline. The sky lit up with colors so vibrant they felt alive, and tears began streaming down my face. But they weren’t tears of despair—they were tears of gratitude.

I thought of my kids, my family, my health. I thought of my faith, which hadn’t faltered even in this darkness. Shackled and confined, I somehow felt free. That sunrise reminded me that even in the bleakest moments, there is light. And that light—those beautiful, defiant rays of the morning sun—gave me hope. Hope that no matter how heavy the chains, the human spirit can rise.?

Always.