Years ago, while in county lockup, I came across a Dylan Thomas poem I didn’t fully understand. It read: “Do not go gentle into that good night… Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
I liked the rhythm and the urgency of it. But I didn’t yet know what it meant to rage from within the belly of the beast.
I would learn soon enough.
When education isn’t enough
I began studying law while in solitary confinement at the Hudson County Correctional Center in Kearny, New Jersey. At 25, I was educated, street-smart, well-travelled, well-read, and owned and ran a successful business selling phones and laptops. And still, I couldn’t follow the jargon in court. It sounded like a strange language that everyone else spoke fluently. I asked my lawyers some questions, but I didn’t press. I was new. I trusted them.
It’s a mistake that still haunts me. If I’d known what I now know, I would have insisted on different strategies in court to fight my case. Had I done so, I don’t believe I would have been handed two consecutive life sentences – 150 years in prison.
You see, the system wants you to sit down, shut up, and comply. But every misstep is hung around your neck like a noose. And when your lawyer fails you, if you try to appeal, the court’s starting point is “sound trial strategy”, meaning they believe the defence lawyer did their job well to begin with.
Into the law library: No saviours, just strategy
When I got to New Jersey State Prison (NJSP) in Trenton in 2005, an older prisoner told me, “Your job is to stay out of trouble, live, and fight for your life. There are no saviours. Get to the law library and learn.”
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So I joined the Inmate Legal Association (ILA), a prisoner-run paralegal group. They trained me, and I became an uncertified paralegal.
Soon after joining the ILA, I started my own legal fight and began helping others. My first victory was a procedural motion that helped a fellow inmate get back to court. That memory still sits like a trophy in my mind. Helping someone else made the struggle worth it.
Another win came in the federal habeas court, where I wanted to challenge my conviction. My petition was dismissed. But I appealed. I trusted my research. I filed. And I won. The result didn’t stick, and the petition was later denied. But the short-lived victory meant something: we can push back.
Hidden resistance behind bars
This is the life of a pro se litigant — pro se means “for oneself” in Latin — someone who represents themselves in court. Serving as your own legal counsel is rarely a choice; more often, it’s a necessity. I hired my own attorney, and the state assigned a second lawyer for my trial and initial appeals. After that, I was on my own. I couldn’t afford further legal representation. And I’m far from alone.
Imprisoned people file tens of thousands of pro se motions every year. US court data from 2000-2019 shows that 91 percent of legal challenges by prisoners were filed pro se.
This is not new. A Bureau of Justice Statistics report from the mid-1990s showed that 93 percent of federal habeas corpus petitions filed by state prisoners then were also pro se.
These numbers confirm what we see inside: legal representation ends after pretty much the first appeal, and beyond that, we’re on our own, with no training, limited resources, and overwhelming barriers.
Voices from the legal underground
Take Martin Robles, a 52-year-old Puerto Rican who’s spent nearly 30 years behind bars. Once he no longer had appointed counsel, Martin took charge of his appeals. “The courts don’t follow their own rules,” he told me. “They don’t hold prosecutors accountable like they do us. We’re time-barred (and appeals are denied) — for being an hour late. But prosecutors? They get unlimited leeway.”
The courts don’t care about the difficulties prisoners endure to communicate with paralegals or to research case law to prepare legal briefs. Access to the law library to do all this is curtailed. We have to request a pass to visit during our housing unit’s weekly rotation, but the passes are limited, and sometimes we wait weeks to enter the library. Courts routinely impose deadlines on prisoners that are also impossible to meet, yet fail to give any latitude for prison constraints. One friend, for example, was given a month to file a legal brief but wasn’t allowed in the prison library during this time as he had a cast on his arm, and this was considered a possible weapon. But without access to the library, he could not get help from paralegals, consult legal reference books, or use the computers to type his brief. The deadline passed, and he wrote to the judge about his plight, but was not given an extension.
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Martin has turned his outrage into something productive. “I’m starting the first Spanish-language law class at NJSP,” he said.
“It’s voluntary. I’m doing it for the people. I’m tired of them being taken advantage of.”
When money can’t buy protection
Kashif Hassan, 39, entered the system with a master’s degree and hired private attorneys. “I threw money at lawyers, and thought I was good,” he said. “But I got manipulated and railroaded. I didn’t fight early enough.”
Eventually, Kashif picked up legal texts and took charge of his future. “My first win was a bail motion in the county [jail],” he said.
“If you don’t fight, no one else will. Pro se litigation works if you know what you’re doing. But courts treat us like amateurs. Like we don’t count.”
A lawyer who didn’t prepare a defence
Tommy Koskovich, 47, was arrested while in high school. “My attorney mocked me,” he recalled. “Said he wasn’t getting paid enough by the Public Defender’s Office, so he didn’t prepare a defence. When I refused the plea deal, he said, ‘I didn’t prepare a defence for you.’”
Tommy has subsequently lost all his appeals, but he is now pursuing his only remaining options: a motion to overturn his sentence and clemency. He has also applied for the latter through New Jersey’s new Clemency Initiative.
Throughout the process, Tommy has learned to identify legal issues. “Sometimes courts only take your issue seriously after you file pro se,” he said. “That’s how State v Comer happened, where an inmate raised the issue himself.”
James Comer was 17 when he was convicted of a felony murder and other offences after carrying out several armed robberies with two others in the year 2000. He was sentenced to prison until the age of 85. He likely would have died in jail, but he took his fight with his lawyers to the New Jersey Supreme Court and was resentenced. He was freed in October after serving 25 years.
Martin, Kashif and Tommy reflect what many of us behind the wall already know: the system isn’t built for justice – it’s built for conviction. The moment your initial appeals end, you’re on your own.
Every mistake you make is punished. Every misstep is used to shut the door tighter.
The legal fight is also a moral one
Still, we fight. We write in broken chairs under flickering lights. We teach others how to file motions, navigate case law, and decode legal jargon.
As for me, I’m working on a motion for DNA testing to prove my innocence and an alternative motion to vacate my sentence. But a few cases are pending in the New Jersey Supreme Court that could help my case, so I’m waiting on their outcomes.
Because we do not go silent.
We do not go gentle into that good night.
We rage – against wrongful convictions, indifferent courts, and a system that hopes we’ll give up.
We rage, even when no one is watching.
Even when no one believes.
Even when the victories are small.
Rage, after all, is hope in motion.
This is the first story in a three-part series on how prisoners are taking on the US justice system through law, prison hustles and hard-won education.