Prisons and Profit: Rebuilding Injustice 20 Years After Hurricane Katrina

The national trauma of Hurricane Katrina remains seared into the minds of those who were alive to watch it unfold, even two decades after it devastated the Gulf Coast. Seeing bodies floating under bridges and families trapped on rooftops isn't something you forget, even if television is your only window into the horror. For those who lived through the storm, doubled rates of mental illness prevalence were their reward for survival. Such outcomes were widely publicized, but the experiences of those confined to Orleans Parish Prison (OPP) often go overlooked.

While the unincarcerated population of the city scrambled to their rooftops to escape the historic flooding, inmates at OPP were confined to their cells with sewage-tainted water rising to their chests. As families on the outside struggled to ration food and water, incarcerated individuals were left in the city jail with access to neither. While people in the city remained stuck on their rooftops or flooded homes, waiting for rescue, inmates were forced to break windows to let air into the facility. 

These instances seem horrific, but historically, they're anything but unexpected. The original iteration of the jail was founded in 1721 to house and punish runaway slaves. Slaves were also sent to the prison if they were perceived as especially difficult by their masters. The racial makeup of the prison didn't change much over the centuries. When Katrina hit, 90 percent of the incarcerated population was Black and/or African American. This heightened rate links directly back to the institutional racism that was the catalyst for the original, horrific penitentiary. 

 An 1895 newspaper article from the Daily Picayune spoke of the original facility: 

[R]efactory slaves were sent to receive a dose of cat o'nine tails, or to be confined in the dungeons, with socks on their feet, and in extreme cases the rebellious blacks were kept immured in the dark cells on a diet of bread and water until reduced to the proper degree of submission…"

Slaves were seen as less than human in the Antebellum South. Unfortunately, inmate conditions didn't improve much in the centuries to follow. In 1837, the "Old" Parish Prison opened—where inmates were segregated and slept on hard floors. This facility was replaced in 1895, but by 1920, its poor construction rendered it nearly useless. Inhumane treatment was par for the course throughout the jail's history. From enslaved people to modern accused criminals (of which one-third were held without conviction when Katrina rolled through), the public cared little for individuals who were merely seen as disposable. 

While the public may not understand the full plight of prisoners, they're not completely shielded from the truth. Even when they know injustices are occurring, they do not frame them as such in their minds. This also helps explain why incarcerated persons are among the most severely impacted victims of environmental racism. The lack of consideration paid to inmates manifests as increased exposure to pollution, reduced access to clean water, and other environmental dangers. This was clearly the case in New Orleans. 

Most of the travesties of OPP went unnoticed until Hurricane Katrina. In 2006, when the American Civil Liberties Union released its report, Abandoned & Abused: Orleans Parish Prisoners in the Wake of Hurricane Katrina, it exposed how inmates at Orleans Parish Prison were mistreated and left for dead during what many have dubbed the "storm of the century." While "left for dead" often gets used as a colloquialism, the term is quite literal in this context. Deputies in the jail quit their jobs, abandoned their posts, and left inmates locked in cells—many doing so after being forced to show up to work under threat of termination. 

There are so many devastatingly tragic realities in the story of Orleans Parish Prison that deciding where to start is difficult. Trapped inside were children as young as 10 years old being held in confinement; inmates crowded in cells with no water, food, or functioning bathrooms; uncharged inmates, wrongfully imprisoned and confined for weeks with no conviction; a 13-year-old girl was housed near male inmates who watched her use the toilet before they all spent days in water up to her neck. 

The mayor had placed the city under its first-ever mandatory evacuation order on August 28. Not only did the New Orleans Parish Sheriff Marlin Gusman ignore the order, saying "the prisoners will stay where they belong," but he allowed the transfer of inmates from other facilities to OPP to be held during the storm. Once the storm hit, it took three days before the evacuation of inmates started. Many of the evacuees ended up in unsafe conditions even after the evacuation. 

By the time all was said and done, 517 inmates were unaccounted for. Those who made it out alive were exposed to dangerous conditions, violations of civil rights, and violence from both police officers and other inmates. Prior to their evacuation, some detainees were forced into cells filled with water for up to 24 hours before being moved to the Interstate 10 overpass. Testimonials from those who went through the ordeal show evacuees were told they'd be shot if they moved or even stretched while on the bridge. 

The threat of violence was a constant, even before the I-10 overpass. During the flooding at the jail, OPP guard Renard Reed was ordered to take up a perch on the rooftop and gun down anyone who tried to leave the flooded buildings. This was after he had been locked in the prison along with other guards to prevent desertion. How many of the 517 unaccounted-for inmates died at the hands of violent officers? There's likely no way to know, but one inmate said "[I saw four] of my best friends shot to death like dogs tr[y]ing to save me from drowning." 

Many people are still considered missing after Hurricane Katrina, and bodies that were recovered have gone decades without positive identification. The Department of Justice said those who were held on the I-10 overpass were forced to sit in rows, deprived of food and water, and continually abused by police. When inmates were finally moved off the bridge, things only got worse. 

Thousands of prisoners were left in outdoor fields with no access to medical care. Additional transfers led to OPP inmates facing assault from prisoners and guards. When interviewed, one inmate who was moved to Hunt Correctional Center said "[m]en were stabbing each other, fighting… [g]uards were macing us… People were also being rape [sic]." When one inmate approached guards seeking help after suffering a stab wound, he was told to "get back to the yard." When he failed to do so, officers maced him. In many cases, assaults went unnoticed by guards because inmates were often left unsupervised in wide-open spaces. Still, this is something OPP inmates were used to long before Hurricane Katrina.

Orleans Parish Prison has long dealt with problems that officials refuse to address. When built in 1929, the facility was meant to house 400-450 inmates. By 1970, the population was at least double that, which led to a civil rights lawsuit. Ongoing civil cases eventually resulted in a consent decree that required conditions at the jail to improve. In the years leading up to Hurricane Katrina, and the years after, the facility has remained uncompliant with the consent decree due to ongoing constitutional violations. Chronic underfunding, political resistance to outside oversight, and weak enforcement mechanisms allowed dangerous conditions to persist. 

Unsurprisingly, Orleans Parish Prison is frequently referred to as "the worst city jail in America." The lack of supervision following Hurricane Katrina, which exposed inmates (including uncharged individuals) to extreme dangers, was preceded by ongoing negligent supervision in OPP. Inmates were often left unsupervised, and this led to at-risk individuals facing violent assaults. Six years after the storm, when many of these problems had finally come to light, a then-current OPP guard said that "85 percent of what happens in the jail goes unsupervised." 

This was nothing new, as inmates painted a dark picture in their 1969 lawsuit against the prison:

"Overcrowding, the lack of a classification system, inadequate supervision of inmates and easy inmate access to materials for fashioning weapons created a situation in which physical and sexual assault was frequent and the threat of attack was constant." 

Even with this lawsuit, many of the problems at OPP never came into the public spotlight until the tragedy of Hurricane Katrina. Certainly, the public understood that conditions were less than ideal, but they may have failed to realize that their indifference played into worsening conditions for imprisoned populations. This isn't merely a theory. It's a reality we see play out time and again. Governments house inmates in "toxic prisons" surrounded by the most contaminated sites in America. Heat deaths are common in facilities with inadequate air conditioning. There are even prisons with arsenic in their drinking water. 

These conditions persist because incarcerated people are politically powerless, publicly devalued, and housed in systems shaped by cost-cutting, weak oversight, and incentives that prioritize retribution over safety. Such issues caused and exacerbated the pre-Katrina problems at OPP—most of which stemmed from overcrowding and a lack of training. In fact, deputies at OPP said they received no emergency training and knew of no evacuation plans before Hurricane Katrina ripped through the area. For a facility that was taking in additional inmates before the storm, this is the epitome of reckless negligence. 

One might suspect that Hurricane Katrina would be a wake-up call. The unconscionable actions during and after the storm could not go unnoticed, and their occurrence would undoubtedly bring additional scrutiny. Which it did. So, why is the prison still considered among the worst in the nation? After all, federal money poured into the state after Katrina. More than $50 billion, to be exact. But none of this money went into improving the prison conditions or the prisoners' lives.

The money was certainly available to make improvements to the carceral system in the city. It simply wasn't used like it should've been. "The Big Easy" put more people in prison than any other city in America. When the levees broke in New Orleans and prison officials abandoned inmates to fend for themselves in the rising waters, about 60 percent of those inmates were incarcerated for nothing more than unpaid fees and fines, municipal charges, or traffic violations.

The overpopulation of Orleans Parish Prison was not a coincidence. It was by design. The facility received a per diem amount of money for every day it held an inmate. More people housed in the prison meant more money. In the wake of Katrina, disaster capitalism ensured that more concern would be given to funding than to individuals. "Disaster capitalism" refers to the exploitation of disasters and crises to push through unpopular reforms and budgets. Hurricane Katrina proved to be a case example of this strategy. 

For instance, the parish school board fired all employees–mostly African American and unionized–as the state-run recovery school district took over. Soon thereafter, nearly all schools were converted into private-run charter schools. Private developers also used the disaster to push for the destruction of public housing, even in areas less affected by the hurricane. Poor African Americans were forced out of their neighborhoods, and lots of money changed hands as the areas were gentrified. 

Even as the horrors of Orleans Parish Prison were pushed into the public eye again, those in power ignored calls for reform. Marlin "The Prisoners Will Stay Where They Belong" Gusman called for a facility that housed 5,800 beds. Gusman oversaw massive expansions in inmate housing in the years following the disaster. The Federal Emergency Management Agency sent $223 million to restore incarceration facilities after the hurricane. Much of this money was funneled to private companies. By 2015, Phase II construction at Orleans Parish Prison was completed—adding 1,438 additional beds—at a cost of $146 million. 

Medical care at the facility was also privatized. Treatments that were once offered by public healthcare services were instead provided by private healthcare companies. Like the pre-Katrina strategy of filling up inmate beds in order to get more funding, the per diem model after the storm ensured a continued focus on inflated incarceration rates. The funneling of disaster funds to private companies is certainly a concern, but then came the mercenaries. 

In the years following Hurricane Katrina, temporary tent housing and mobile facilities were used to house inmates. Many of these were eventually replaced with permanent prefabricated structures built by private contractors. A notable temporary facility was known as Camp Greyhound, built by inmates. At least five private mercenary firms were employed to round up accused criminals (e.g., mostly alleged looters) and help keep the makeshift jail running. Further violence and injustice happened at this facility. This included charged individuals being held for processing in permanent facilities for three weeks for daring to plead not guilty. 

Clearly, a lot of private firms made a lot of money from disaster capitalism. It's worth noting that one of these firms was Blackwater. Yes, that Blackwater—the one that changed its name in an attempt to escape the stench of the atrocities they committed in Iraq. Now that they weren't murdering civilians in the Middle East, they were patrolling the streets of New Orleans and handling law enforcement and jailer duties. Because regardless of the underlying justifications, disaster capitalism prioritizes profits over people. The tragedy of Hurricane Katrina was compounded by having regressive policies forced on the populace. 

To be clear, there was a concerted effort to stop carceral expansion in the years after the storm. This push has come from activists, nonprofit groups, and even some officials. The Orleans Parish Prison Reform Coalition adamantly opposed the Phase III expansion of Orleans Parish Prison. This facility's stated purpose was to cater to the needs of prisoners with mental health issues. Opponents to the expansion argued that the current jail should be retrofitted to provide better care, rather than increase its capacity. 

The most tragic reality of this situation is that there was a real opportunity to improve Orleans Parish Prison and work towards minimizing mass incarceration for profit. The money was there to make things happen. More importantly, there was public backlash following Hurricane Katrina. This attention likely led to increased government scrutiny. In 2013, the Department of Justice reached a new consent decree with OPP to improve conditions in the facility. The years following the storm had finally provided the city with funding, a citizen mandate, and federal orders to make things better.  

None of that mattered. In 2024, Orleans Parish Prison was still listed as one of the top 10 worst prisons in America. That same year, federal monitors said that the local sheriff's office had actually become less compliant to the consent decree in each of the prior seven years. This is where disaster capitalism often leaves us. Billions of dollars are made available to rebuild and improve, but far too often, that money goes directly into the pockets of private contractors. Oftentimes, this occurs via no-bid contracts, which essentially means the focus is on kickbacks rather than efficient use of resources. 

Following Hurricane Katrina, public opinion galvanized against a system that abandoned hundreds of inmates, including children and detainees with no convictions, to die in rising flood waters in their cells. 

Inmates are in danger during disasters because they're seen as dispensable. The public and public officials feel that they're exactly where they need to be, ignoring the reality that many of these people have never even been convicted of a crime. More importantly, they're ignoring the reality that these people are people. There is no justification for leaving hundreds of people trapped in a jail to die during a hurricane. There's also no justification for the many atrocities that came after, or the purposeful fumbling of an opportunity to change things for the better. 

Orleans Parish Prison is easily among the most extreme examples of negligence, profiteering, and human rights violations in the American carceral system. However, it's far from an isolated reality. It's not a "bad apple" in the system. It's the product of a broken system that was created to do exactly what it's doing. Until serious work is done to rectify these issues, people will continue to suffer. Sadly, continuous attention is often necessary for such change, and this rarely exists when an issue only grabs the public's attention every decade or so. Put simply, Orleans Parish Prison is more than a failure of the system.

It's a failure for us. And until we start viewing incarcerated individuals as more than second-class citizens, it's only a matter of time before the next tragedy catches our attention for a news cycle.