An Architect’s Responsibility for Prison Abolition
I became an architectural designer who supports prison abolition because…
My uncle’s name is Jeffrey Glenn Hutchinson. He served our country in the Gulf War as an Army Ranger. He personally knew some of the men in the squadron depicted in Black Hawk Down. He lived in Berlin and saw the wall fall. He speaks 5 different languages and is a talented draftsman. I was very young when he wasn’t incarcerated, but my memories of him were always impressive. I remember playing with his son who was incredibly talented at drawing at only age 8. He could draw comic book heroes almost identically to graphic novels. I remember him putting his oversized aviators on my baby brother and teaching him the phrase “You’re toast!” which my brother would adopt as his catchphrase until he was about 5 or 6.
In the fall of 1998, there was unease that I felt overwhelm our household. My parents were whispering about something that had happened to a family member, and only now and then would I hear my uncle’s name. A week or so had passed, and things had calmed down. It was after dark and I was getting ready for bed in my parent’s room while passively listening to the evening news when I saw my uncle’s mug shot on the local network. I ran to my parents and exclaimed that uncle Jeff was on TV! It was then that they had to explain that something horrible had happened. My uncle’s partner and her two young children were slain, and my uncle Jeff was arrested as the primary suspect. They explained that they didn’t know what had happened, but they believed he was innocent.
The next summer would be the first time that we flew to Florida to visit my uncle Jeff in the state prison. The entire experience was scary. The monolithic concrete architecture was overbearing and the humidity seeped into the building making every corridor feel dank. I was 7 years old, and it was required that each visitor follow a strict dress code. I was separated from my parents and siblings and taken into a room to be inspected for contraband before visitation. The officers did not care that I was a child and expected us to act like adults. The commanding tones that they would use were frightening and my anxiety stirred as I stared at the handgun on their hip. Every article of clothing I had on was picked apart and the officers objectified me telling me that “those inmates would tear me apart.” After passing the inspection, and three more security checks we were finally able to see my uncle. The stainless steel tables and chairs were cold and uncomfortable. I looked around at the other families in the room visiting their loved ones and felt no different than being at Denny’s restaurant. I don’t remember much of the conversation, but I remember being happy to see my uncle. After leaving, my parents would plan something extravagant to lift our spirits like a trip to Disney in Orlando.
Over the next two years, I watched my extended family try to pool enough money together to get Jeff a decent lawyer for his trial. My grandparents sold many of their assets. My Dad worked overtime at the machine shop to help pitch in, and his siblings scraped together some money as well. On my eleventh birthday, December 15th, 2001 my uncle’s case was brought to trial. My father flew to Florida while my mother live-streamed the trial on a pixelated computer screen. The jury found my uncle guilty of three counts of murder for his partner and her two children. There was substantial evidence at the scene which was thrown out of this hearing. This included dried blood found beneath my uncle’s fingernails that did not match his DNA or that of the victims, a torn piece of hosiery with hair that did not match the DNA of his or the victim, and the largest piece of evidence that the murder weapon, a shotgun, was not registered to Jeff. In addition, the people that Jeff had been saying were guilty of slaying his loved ones were the key witnesses called by the defense. Our lawyers had failed us, our judge had failed us, and the criminal justice system had failed us.
We would take yearly visits to Florida to visit my uncle after the mistrial. The officers would intentionally change the required dress code for visitation which meant buying an entire new wardrobe for our family at Walmart down the street. We would be pushed around while trying to follow the rules laid out by the officers as closely as possible, but the rules were changing goalposts every visit. When you have an incarcerated family member, you are, by extension, a criminal in the eyes of those officers. At home, I watched my Grandparents sell everything they owned to get Jeff a new trail with better lawyers and a shot at redemption. They sold their house and moved into fifth-wheel which they traveled cross-country in. In 2008, Jeff was granted a shot at a new trial. We were prepared to try anything to ensure this trial included the critical evidence missed in the first trial. My mother, who was a legal assistant, spent a number of all-nighters reviewing and preparing paperwork for the trial. The new lawyers submitted the paperwork two days too late, and the retrial was dismissed by the same judge who had ruled Jeff guilty. Once again, the justice system failed my family.
A year later, my Grandfather passed away from two subsequent strokes. My Grandma says that he passed from the stress. On the day of his funeral, my father and his four brothers were trying to organize a phone call to break the news to Jeff. Under normal circumstances, we were not allowed to speak on the phone. After much debate with the officers at Florida State Prison, they granted an 8-minute emergency phone call to my uncle.
In 2020, the case was brought to the attention of the Federal Bureau of Investigation after the couple that Jeff had been saying slayed his partner and children were connected to a string of bank robberies. From the beginning, Jeff has been saying that he was approached by the couple weeks prior to the murder asking him to join them in a heist. My grandparents had visited the couple when they lived in Florida and noticed a number of red flags. They were adamant to convince my grandparents that Jeff was guilty and that they should give up hope. My grandmother opened a dresser drawer in their home while they visited to find stacks of cash, but didn’t mention it until after they left. The FBI also found that the murder weapon was in fact not linked to Jeff in any way. I am told that the DNA evidence is also under review. Today, we are waiting for the trial to be heard by the Supreme Court, and for Jeff to be granted a new hearing with a different judge. Jeff has spent 23 years in prison for a crime that he did not commit. My family has given everything to get him a fair trial but has failed over and over again.
One of the most profound things that my uncle told me during our visitations is how appalling it is to see the number of people who are incarcerated and are innocent. This system is broken.
After not only studying the prison system but living this experience I can say with certainty that prisons are not the path to a just society. The only reason to build more prisons is to increase the population of incarcerated people. As an architectural designer, I think decrepit prison buildings should crumble. I think that prisons, no matter if they are designed for the comfort of the occupants, are inhumane.
As architects, we have a responsibility…
Many of us reach a point in our career where we realize that we can make choices on project types. If we stand together in resistance and vow to never design prison architecture we can make an impact on the future of our country. Be present with the project types that you support, and actively choose projects that make our future brighter.
