By David J. Meister
On September 9, 2025, I was packed up for transfer from a prison in southern Idaho to a prison in southern Arizona.
At 5:30 in the evening I was summoned to Intake. No dinner, the bus was supposedly on its way. I sat for more than three hours on a concrete bench in a holding cell before it actually arrived.
When it did, thirty of us lined up to be stripped, squat and cough, and trade our clothes for orange paper jumpsuits with INMATE stenciled across the front and back. No shoelaces, the transport officer ordered. A few of us had dared to wear personal shoes, hoping for something more comfortable than the prison slip-ons. “You’ll get your shoelaces back when you get there,” he added. We never did.
Our ankles were shackled, our wrists cuffed to belly chains, and the infamous black boxes were locked over the restraints, pinning our hands so tightly we could not scratch our faces. Then came the order to pair up, chained together for the journey. Two by two we climbed the bus’s steep steps, shuffling in tandem.
The seating arrangement is its own punishment. If you are first in line you end up in the back by the toilet. If you are last you are locked in the front cages, part phone booth and part dog kennel. The middle is the lesser evil: rows of hard plastic seats, fourteen inches wide, knees jammed against the seat ahead, no armrests, no headrests, nowhere to move. From Boise to Phoenix, more than a full day, your hands stay locked in your lap.
The first stop came four hours in, at a gas station. Guards handed out eight-ounce bottles of water and greasy peanut butter sandwiches. I drank half the water and skipped the sandwich. I knew better. Food in means food out, and no one wants to use the toilet on that bus. By then it was already covered in urine.
Four more hours, another stop, another bottle of water. My shoulders ached from supporting my chained hands. My wrists and ankles were raw and swollen. I tried to sleep by pulling off one shoe, easier without laces, and using it as a pillow against the seat ahead. Sharp plastic and metal dug into me no matter how I shifted.
The hours dragged. My body screamed, then went numb. I drifted in a fog of dehydration and pain. Some men vomited where they sat. At least one soiled himself. Never eat the greasy sandwiches.
Later I forced myself to the toilet. I passed rows of men slumped like zombies, twisted faces and closed eyes. The toilet itself was overflowing with urine, feces, vomit, and torn T-shirts used as paper. The stench clung to my throat. I pitied the men chained to seats nearby.
When we finally arrived in Arizona, twenty-seven hours after leaving Idaho, we were almost glad to bend over for another strip search. At least the ride was over. When we asked for our shoelaces, an officer shrugged and said, “No shoelaces came with your property.”
That is the way these transports always go: the promises, the deprivation, the indignities. It was not the first time I endured a transfer like this, and it will not be the last. But after more than two decades behind bars, I can say with certainty that the bus ride is always the worst.