On Rikers Island, the wait for visitation is brutal. It’s hours of standing on line in the cold of the East River winds, waiting until stony-faced corrections officers search you again and again as you work your way further into concentric circles of correctional hell. If you’re sneaking in to report, you go into the interview empty-handed, pretending to be a friend and not a journalist. With no notepad, you have to memorize the best quotes as they’re spoken or, usually, whispered in the hope the guards don’t overhear. I’d been in jails before as a free person—once to visit Sam and a few dozen
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