By David J. Meister
“I don’t know if I can keep doing this . . . ,” Adam said.
“I had a good job in E- and G-Block. I was doing great. Staff loved me, but said they couldn’t do anything to stop the move.”
My cellmate Adam told me words to that effect in the days before he died.
Previously he’d been housed in the medium-security workers’ wing, E- and G-Block, of the Idaho Maximum Security Institution (IMSI). There, Adam had purpose, consistency, and frequent family visits. He was a model inmate, productively paying his debt to society. Then all was upended when Adam was unexpectedly shipped to a facility in Arizona.
The Saguaro Correctional Center in Eloy, Arizona, is a private prison owned by CoreCivic, formerly the Corrections Corporation of America (CCA), which has faced years of litigation, investigations, and criticism over understaffing, inmate safety, and conditions of confinement. The business model didn’t change with the new name, however; and in my experience, Saguaro exemplifies the shortcomings CoreCivic/CCA is notorious for.
Related reporting on CoreCivic lawsuits and safety allegations
Adam was my friend. We met in 2018 and worked together for a number of years at the Idaho State Correctional Institution. In 2022, he was transferred to IMSI. I’d heard Adam found a comfortable groove there, but later went out-of-state in 2023.
In September 2025, I too was shipped to Arizona, and was happy to see Adam’s friendly face when I arrived at Saguaro.
In early May 2026, he lost his cellmate and moved in with me rather than get a random person who might not be compatible.
In the afternoon of May 23, I returned to our cell and found Adam’s body.
I reported the apparent suicide and was promptly restrained and isolated in a holding cage in Segregation until police interviewed me later that night.
“Did Adam give any indication . . . ?”
Yes, Adam Sought Help—He Didn’t Get It
Saguaro fronts as a medium-security facility, boasting many programs to engage its inmates. In reality, the programs are puffed up for PR, and are either superficial or offered only to a few eligible inmates. For the majority of prisoners, out-of-unit opportunity is scarce, by design.
Saguaro actually operates like a maximum-security facility, isolating inmates on housing tiers, providing little recreation beyond an outdoor basketball court, and offering few meaningful jobs or educational opportunities. The climate is hostile; staff are disrespectful. And Idaho inmates are forced to wear the aggressive orange scrubs usually reserved for jail detainees and higher-custody inmates, not medium-custody prisoners under rehabilitation.
Adam never found a groove here, and in the weeks leading up to his death he was noticeably restless and listless.
On May 21, Adam tried to reach out by talking to mental-health staff. He didn’t divulge details of those meetings other than that his antidepressants weren’t working. Presumably he didn’t admit to suicidal ideation, or he’d have been taken to the Hole.
Such inmates are isolated in suicide-prevention cells without property of any kind and are kept naked except for a “turtle suit” (an indestructible smock), for days or weeks until they say the urge to commit suicide has passed. A powerful disincentive for suicidal inmates to be honest.
Adam mentioned a desire to return to the Behavioral Health Unit (BHU), which houses mentally ill inmates and provides a greater degree of care than the general population. However, the BHU is at the Idaho State Correctional Institution, and placement there is categorically denied to the 900 Idaho inmates currently housed in Arizona.
His last effort was to submit an electronic communication to Idaho Contract Monitor Klinton Hust, who is responsible for out-of-state placements. Adam explained his deteriorating mental state, lack of outlets, and pleaded for transport back to Idaho.
On May 22, Hust responded that there was no pathway back to Idaho, and Adam would remain in Arizona indefinitely.
Hust’s final denial, I believe, was determinative in Adam’s choice to end his life.
Adam brought up Hust the afternoon of May 23 in a brief moment while Adam and I waited together for our tier to be called for lunch. I counselled Adam to keep an open mind; a way home might open by unforeseen circumstances.
But at that point, Adam likely had already made a plan for leaving Saguaro on his terms.
After lunch, I settled at a day-room table to work on a project, allowing Adam the cell to himself for the rest of the afternoon.
He covered the cell window with a towel, the usual sign an inmate is using the toilet.
A half hour later, I noticed the towel was still up, and I started getting nervous.
Several times the two correctional officers working the tier passed the cell, and I hoped they would knock on the cell door, but they did not.
(Both officers were later fired. Inside sources say the termination resulted from their failure to conduct mandatory welfare checks.)
The towel remained up, and I had a sinking feeling.
I didn’t want to see Adam’s corpse—the image of a violent inmate-on-inmate murder I witnessed in 2021 plays behind my eyes to this day.
Related: “I Killed My Cellmate: Exposing the Mental Health Crisis in Prisons”
Still, someone had to check, so I did.
I knocked loudly twice, and at no response I slowly cracked open the door.
I peeked in enough to see Adam on the floor, and the floor covered in blood.
Later I learned he cut an artery in his thigh.
Insult to Injury
At 3:00 in the morning I was let out of the Hole and placed in a temporary cell.
Adam’s body had been removed and Saguaro staff had finished the first round of cleanup.
I was escorted and allowed to retrieve a few toiletries and a blanket from the cell. I noticed many items of property missing, discarded for blood contamination.
What stood out was that some officer had balled up a piece of artwork Adam had prized.
Why?
A few hours later a team of senior Saguaro staff came in force and searched the cell, removing Adam’s remaining property.
Eventually I was returned to the cell—my property had been trashed in the search.
Pictures torn from the wall, papers disheveled and crumpled, several personal items stolen by staff.
I wasn’t surprised; I’ve been housed in three CoreCivic/CCA facilities, and that company’s earned its poor reputation.
I picked up the pieces.
The stench of blood is strong.
Fellow inmates stopped by to give condolences, and a few brought cleaning supplies.
I set about cleaning up leftover blood, from the floor, the walls, and my things.
Déjà vu.
When I first entered this cell in early September 2025, it smelled of blood then too. I cleaned flecks spattered everywhere from a murder that occurred there less than two weeks before.
Related reporting on the August 2025 Saguaro killing
There is no sense, no moral, no triumph over adversity here.
Just tragedy, hopelessness.
I’ll miss you Adam.