My name is Norberto Martinez, number 45757-053 in the federal Bureau of Prisons system. I write this story to expose the cruel conditions and injustice I endured during a prison-to-prison transfer from the Otisville medium-security facility in New York to Loretto low in Pennsylvania several months ago. A simple transfer that the BOP performs hundreds of times every week should be routine, but this was anything but.
On February 22, 2025, after coming off of a two-week institutional lockdown, I was told to pack my belongings because I was scheduled to be transferred to a low-security prison. The resulting process took two weeks as I went from one holdover facility to another. First it was MDC Brooklyn, then on to Lewisburg USP (PA). When I arrived at both places, I was processed and body scanned, then scanned again when I left. Each time, I was cleared by both the machine and the officer overseeing it. That means it was documented that I had no hidden contraband or foreign objects inside my body.
When I arrived at Loretto, however, there was a problem. The scanner (or officer) saw something he believed to be an object inside me, so I was scanned again and again, 10 times. Then the guards separated me from the rest of the inmates who were transferring with me, and placed me in a solitary cell. People from different departments came to interview me. First it was medical, then a lieutenant, then SIS (the prison’s intelligence and investigations staff). I was also questioned by a case manager and the prison’s R&D staff. They all accused me of hiding contraband in my stomach and demanded I tell them which drug I was carrying. They seemed to be convinced of the accuracy of their conclusion, because they told me to confess before the package of drugs burst inside.
At first I thought it must be a mistake. I blamed the scanner. Then it occurred to me that perhaps the condition I suffer from – known as IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) – could be the culprit. Maybe my bowels were impacted? I said I would be more than willing to take a laxative, if need be, to prove my innocence. I definitely was not smuggling drugs.
They asked about my nationality and whether I belonged to a gang or sect. I was born in Puerto Rico, I told them, but I don’t belong to any gangs or groups. The case manager accused me of lying. He said that a person who has done as much time as I have (30 years) always belongs to some kind of gang. “And besides”, he said, “Puerto Ricans usually carry contraband in their body cavities.”
I felt as though he gave away his true motivation with that statement: “Puerto Ricans usually carry contraband.” I felt I was being profiled, in a way. I was shocked and offended because neither was true. Not of me.
Later, the chief lieutenant interviewed me and said I should stop playing games because, “The scanner does not lie, and it’s not constipation that is showing up on the machine; it is drugs.” He was completely convinced that the lumps they saw were packages of drugs.
At this point, I was livid. I asked him for a phone call. I wanted to call my lawyer or my family, I said, to inform them about what was happening. The lieutenant refused. He handcuffed me and escorted me to a small room where a guard was stationed to watch me 24 hours a day, along with cameras.
They called the room a “dry cell.” I called it the torture cell from hell.
Welcome to the dry cell
In the dry cell the guards stripped me naked and gave me paper clothing to wear, made of some kind of thin, see-through material. There was also a very thin mat on the floor with a paper cover for use as a blanket. The room temperature was extremely cold, and since they knew it, they warned me that I was not allowed to walk around the room to warm up, nor was I allowed to place my hands beneath my paper cover. My hands needed to be visible at all times, they warned.
I told them I was freezing, and to please turn the air-conditioning system down. But they didn’t.
It’s called the Dry Cell because there is no water to wash or flush with. I was instructed to defecate in a bucket so they could inspect my waste. But even after I shit in their bucket nine times in front of at least three officers, with one of them shining a flashlight at my ass while I did my business, the accusations did not stop when no drugs were discovered. They treated me worse than a dog.
Every morning, for what would turn out to be 17 days, I was put through the same routine: They came in, handcuffed me and we walked some distance to the medical building, then back to R&D to be scanned again. And each time, they accused me of having drugs hidden in my stomach. The lights remained on 24 hours a day, and since I couldn’t cover my face, I had trouble sleeping. My eyes soon became dry and irritated.
I eventually started feeling sick and asked to see the medical department’s supervisor. I repeated this request daily, and when they finally took me to his office a few days later, I quickly learned he would not get involved. Security of the institution came first, I guess, and my health and safety came somewhere else down on the priority list. I pleaded for an x-ray, reminded Medical about my ongoing IBS issues, and again asked for laxatives. I also asked to be taken to a hospital to prove that I did not have packets of drugs in my system. All of this was starting to scare me and make me anxious. What if what they were seeing was some sort of cancerous tumor in my stomach lining?
The counselor assigned to my case taunted me every time we went on our morning walks to R&D. He laughed about waiting for my “Easter egg to drop.” It was the month of March and Easter was just around the corner. If I complained about my harsh treatment, he called me a gang member who was manipulating the system and deserved it.
After 15 days of not showering or brushing my teeth, unable to drink the proper amount of water, I decided not to eat anymore. But they responded that if I didn’t keep eating normally, I’d be force fed.
At last, some kindness
The longer this went on, the more desperate I became. I started insisting on speaking to my attorney. Two days later, a nice female lieutenant showed up to take me to R&D for my daily scan. This woman showed me the computer monitor and allowed me to look at the images of my bowels. She said she did not agree with or understand what the hell her colleagues thought they saw. She promised to speak to the others on my behalf. Finally, someone believed me.
At the end of the 17th day, after the female lieutenant’s intervention on my behalf, I was released with no write-ups (shots), no apologies, no nothing. It was as if everything I had gone through meant absolutely nothing.
The first thing I did upon release was take a shower. But I passed out in the stall; when I woke up, I was halfway in and out with scrapes, bruises and blood on my legs because a metal bench broke my fall. The unit officer was called and I was taken back to medical for a checkup. A male physician’s assistant weighed me, and this is when I found out I had lost 30 pounds over the past several weeks in the dry cell. Medical determined I was severely dehydrated, and this, they said, was why I passed out in the shower.
While in the dry cell, I struggled with my faith. I am a firm believer of what the Bible teaches, but the experience made me question everything I thought I knew. I thought by being faithful and righteous, and always doing the right thing, God would bless me for my obedience. He would reward me for changing my ways and following His path. I can’t tell you how many times during this experience I asked God why he was allowing these people to mistreat me without cause. I felt abandoned. My anger and fear made me blind. But I realized later that I had forgotten all of God’s teachings. That the Bible does not say that bad things are not going to happen. They will, and I should have stayed firm in my beliefs.
As I write this, I know that God will bring good from the strength I gained during this experience.
I’d like to thank my fellow resident at FCI Fort Dix, Anthony Mammana, for his editing help.
