Federal prisoner transport is a harsh reality, often referred to as “Diesel Therapy” by those who have experienced it. This system, officially known as the Justice Prisoner and Alien Transportation System (JPATS), is responsible for moving inmates between facilities across the United States. For many, including myself, the journey begins, and sometimes continues, on a Prisoner Transport Bus, marking the start of a terrifying and dehumanizing ordeal.
My introduction to this grim world began in Montgomery, Alabama. Shackled and confused, I was thrust onto a privately operated bus, immediately enveloped by the stifling Southern heat. The air conditioning was nonexistent, and the bus was packed with fellow inmates, all in the same state of bewildered discomfort. Adding to the already unbearable conditions, the toilet had overflowed, creating a revolting pool of waste on the floor where we were forced to rest our feet. Questions about our destination were met with curt, dismissive orders: “Just get in the bus and shut up, inmate.” This was my first taste of the powerlessness and degradation that defines the prisoner transport bus experience.
Exterior view of a prisoner transport bus, showcasing its robust and secure design.
The journey culminated in Lovejoy, Georgia, a place that amplified my anxieties. Having previously been held in a low-security facility, the imposing barbed wire and guard towers of this “real” jail were a stark and frightening contrast. We were herded into a holding pen with about 30 other men, left to stew in uncertainty for hours. The unsettling welcome video on prison rape did little to ease our apprehension. This was followed by a stint in solitary confinement, where the echoing cries of long-term inmates painted a bleak picture of my immediate future. A desperate note slipped from the adjacent cell, begging for scraps of food, underscored the brutal reality of this new environment. Adding to the distress, my family was expecting to visit me in Montgomery, unaware of my sudden and unexplained relocation. The question of why I was in transit remained unanswered, lost in the bureaucratic machinery of the system.
After a week of solitary confinement, the ambiguous call to “pack my shit” offered a glimmer of hope, quickly extinguished when I was led back to another prisoner transport bus. This time, the bus took me to a remote corner of Atlanta’s airport, where a chilling scene unfolded. Over a hundred shackled inmates stood on the tarmac, surrounded by U.S. Marshals armed with rifles. We were being loaded onto “Con Air,” the infamous prisoner transport aircraft, initiating a staggering 73-day journey involving twelve different flights. This marked my full immersion into the hellish system of the Justice Prisoner and Alien Transportation System, or as it’s known on the inside, “Diesel Therapy.”
“Diesel Therapy” is more than just a nickname; it encapsulates the deliberate and often punitive use of transportation as a form of punishment within the federal prison system. Instead of direct routes, inmates are frequently subjected to prolonged and circuitous journeys, often by bus, that can last weeks or even months. This system, while ostensibly designed for logistical efficiency, often feels intentionally designed to inflict discomfort and psychological distress.
Before this ordeal, my prison experience had been relatively benign. Sentenced to FPC Montgomery, a minimum-security camp, I had adapted to a life of routine and relative normalcy. The camp, sometimes called the “crown jewel” of the system, offered a stark contrast to the harsh realities of higher-security facilities and the transport system itself. I shared a cubicle, engaged in hobbies, and even formed friendships. Violence was rare, and basic courtesies were common. Looking back, it felt like a different world compared to the dehumanizing experience of the prisoner transport bus.
However, the escape of a fellow inmate from FPC Montgomery shattered this fragile peace and triggered my entry into “Diesel Therapy.” Despite my lack of involvement, I was interrogated, threatened, and ultimately deemed expendable by the administration, a casualty of their panicked overreaction. My sarcastic remark about their “glorified taxi service” did little to improve my situation, and soon I found myself on the first of many prisoner transport buses, heading into the unknown.
From Lovejoy, the buses became a recurring nightmare. Oklahoma City, a major hub for prisoner transit, brought another overcrowded bus ride and a stay at Grady County Jail in Chickasha, Oklahoma. This small, dirty facility crammed 36 men into a single pod, with bunk beds stacked three high. Gang dynamics dictated survival, and tensions were palpable. The dangers of these transports were tragically highlighted when a fight broke out on another bus due to the negligence of guards placing rival gangs together, resulting in the death of an inmate.
The subsequent legs of my journey involved more plane trips and further bus rides, each adding to the cumulative trauma. An incident on a flight to South Dakota, where a marshal threatened to tase an inmate for needing to urinate, exemplifies the callous disregard for basic human needs within the system. The journey continued to Pahrump, Nevada, and a private CoreCivic prison, where federal inmates were mixed with ICE detainees in overcrowded pods. Even basic religious accommodations were inadequate; as an observant Jew, my request for kosher food was met with a monotonous diet of celery and rice, leading to significant weight loss.
Perhaps the most disturbing episode of my “Diesel Therapy” experience was in Utah, where I was shackled to a neo-Nazi. This young man, openly displaying white supremacist tattoos and admitting to hate crimes, became my forced companion for two weeks. Despite my attempts to alert jail staff, my concerns were ignored. This close proximity to someone filled with hate was a terrifying ordeal, a stark manifestation of the systemic indifference to inmate safety and well-being. Ironically, even this neo-Nazi revealed a degree of humanity, sharing his troubled background and even asking for forgiveness, highlighting the complex individuals caught within the system.
My mother’s desperate call to the U.S. Marshals, questioning the purpose of this “Diesel Therapy,” was met with denial and ignorance. “Diesel therapy? Never heard of it,” they claimed, illustrating the official obfuscation surrounding this brutal practice.
The prisoner transport bus, and the larger system it represents, is a critical component of the American penal system that demands scrutiny. “Diesel Therapy” is not just about moving bodies; it’s a brutal and often overlooked aspect of incarceration that inflicts significant physical and psychological harm. Understanding and reforming this system is crucial to achieving a more just and humane criminal justice system.
Michael Rothenberg, now a rabbi and consultant for those facing federal prison, experienced firsthand the horrors of “Diesel Therapy.”
The Federal Bureau of Prisons did not respond to requests for comment on the allegations made in this essay.
