Phone calls are a vital way for people in prison to stay connected to the outside. But they are also costly, and won’t be getting cheaper anytime soon.
Last year, a federal law required the Federal Communications Commission to begin requiring prison phone service providers to cut costs for phone calls in jails and prisons.
The maximum cost for in-state prison phone calls had lowered from 14 cents per minute to 6 cents per minute. Large jails also had calls capped at 6 cents per minute, while medium-sized jail calls were capped at 7 cents per minute. These caps started going into effect on a staggered basis in January.
The FCC had estimated capping phone and video call costs “would save incarcerated people and their families, friends and legal teams about $386 million.”
But in late June, the FCC said it will no longer enforce the rule until at least April 2027.
The new rules would have made a 15-minute phone call cost 90 cents at most, instead of $2.40.
While that would have provided families with considerable relief, Prison Journalism Project writers said even the capped amount would have been expensive, depending on one’s prison job and what it pays, or one’s level of family support.
In a statement, FCC Chairman Brendan Carr said that the decision to reverse course was made because the new rules were having “negative, unintended consequences.” Dropping phone call rates too low would make it hard for state and local governments to cover the “required safety measures” for phone calls, he said. He stressed that those governments should have more time to secure additional funding before the rates are cut.
FCC Commissioner Anna M. Gomez spoke out against the board’s decision, saying the board had made “the indefensible decision to ignore both the law and the will of Congress.”
“Rather than enforce the law, the Commission is now stalling, shielding a broken system that inflates costs and rewards kickbacks to correctional facilities at the expense of incarcerated individuals and their loved ones,” Gomez said.
In response to this news, PJP asked some of our contributors to send in dispatches about the necessity of phone calls, and how high costs — relative to extremely low prison wages — affect their connections to loved ones.
— PJP Editors
Phone calls are how I feel loved. When someone picks up, it tells me I matter to them.
My favorite person to call is my younger sister, who’s now in college. I missed her whole childhood while being locked up. If I couldn’t speak with her, I’d feel like I didn’t exist in her world. She makes me feel loved.
But in prison, loving people costs money. A 30-minute phone call in my Texas prison is $1.89. Securus, the prison phone provider, charges by the minute, even while the phone rings.
With my budget, I can afford to make three calls per week. The rate is 6 cents per minute. My dad tells me I should only call once per week. He wants me to spend the rest of my money on food.
— Cesar Hernandez, Texas
In January 2024, I called home from the Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women, in New Jersey, to speak with my mother, or “My Girl,” as I call her.
I started my conversation off cheerfully, “Hey girl! What are you doing out there in them streets?” As I anticipated her response, I smiled. But it wasn’t her voice I heard on the other line.
“Cretia, this is Towanda,” a woman said. My hand gripped the phone tighter. “We are at the hospital, your mother had a stroke.”
My chest tightened, my legs weakened, and the only word I could get out was, “What?”
Towanda must’ve heard the panic in my silence. “We’re at the hospital with her now,” she said quickly. “Here she is.”
And then I heard it, my mother’s voice — soft and shaky, but unmistakably hers.
For 28 years, I’ve relied on phone calls from prison to stay connected with my mom. My weekly calls with her have been more than routine — they’ve been a lifeline. In that moment in January, when I thought I might never hear her voice again, I realized just how vital that connection truly is.
I smiled again, this time from the wave of relief that swept over me. The weight in my stomach lifted. She was alive.
“Hey girl,” I said again, this time through tears. “What are they doing to you in there?” I tried to sound calm, but she knew me too well. She heard both the joy and the fear in my voice. She told me she was OK. She was eating, while surrounded by family at Jersey City Medical Center.
My mother is 75, but you wouldn’t know it. She lives like she’s 30, always at the beauty salon, getting her nails or lashes done, or catching up with neighbors. Sometimes she answers my calls from the bodega, laughing as the owner speaks Spanish to her. She doesn’t know the language, but since I took Spanish in college, she’d say, “Cretia! Listen! What is he saying?” I’d translate, and now, even today, she still answers the phone with the only Spanish word she remembers: “Hola!”
Later that year, she suffered a second stroke and needed three stents. She spent most of 2024 in and out of the hospital. Through it all, I stayed by her side the only way I could — by phone. I called during doctors’ rounds, asked questions, and advocated for specialists and the best care. Even from behind bars, I made sure she had a voice on her side.
Her recovery has been slow but steady, and today, I’m grateful to say she’s doing well. Those phone calls carried us both through the hardest moments of our lives.
— Lucretia Stone, New Jersey
Talking to my loved ones over the phone is a coping mechanism. Staying connected helps me stave off loneliness and depression.
But phone calls are not cheap and something I have to budget for. In New Jersey, calls have actually become more affordable in recent years. Back in 2015, a 15-minute phone call cost $5. Today, a 15-minute call costs 51 cents.
My prison job pays $5 per day. With my budget, I can spend $3 per day to make six calls — which is more than half my daily pay.
Trying to divide six calls per day between my four children and three grandchildren is a painstaking task. If phone calls were cheaper, and I were able to speak to my children and grandchildren more often, it would strengthen our bonds.
I enjoy speaking to my children the most. Hearing them makes me feel alive. They are out in the free world, making decisions to navigate life’s peaks and valleys. Over the 17 years I’ve been gone, phone calls have been my window into how they are developing.
I believe New Jersey’s prison system should be doing more to encourage contact between family and friends, not exploiting us for financial gain, or allowing private companies to exploit us. From what I’ve seen, incarcerated individuals who have positive, supportive relationships are less likely to engage in criminal behavior while in prison. Research has also shown that maintaining family ties reduces recidivism rates.
If I wasn’t able to speak with my kids, I would feel empty and hopeless.
— Shakeil Price, New Jersey
My favorite person to call is my mom. Talking with her makes me feel rejuvenated, like I can face the day with strength. Without those conversations, I would feel disconnected and emotionally stranded. Although I have access to other forms of communication — like email, text and letters — speaking with my mom on the phone brings me the most comfort.
Phone access at my prison comes with rules. We’re expected to keep our voices low when we’re near someone on a call, give the person privacy while they’re speaking, and avoid taking two turns in a row since others are usually waiting for their chance.
Each week, the first two phone calls are free. After that, it costs about 6 cents per minute for up to 15 minutes. I earn 45 cents an hour at my facility job, so I can budget for as many calls as I’d like. Still, I only talk on the phone twice a week because of my work and school schedule.
Securus, the prison phone provider at our prison, also offers 10 free emails per month, which helps too.
— Chastyn “Nova” Hicks, Arizona
I call many different people each month to conduct interviews for our prison publication, update advocacy organizations on prison goings-on and check in with my friends and family.
My favorite person to call is Karl Tobey, my former cellmate. Talking to him makes me feel grounded. Without our calls over the past decade, I would feel alone.
In Washington state, we get two free 20-minute calls per week. After that, you can make more calls, but you have to pay for them. I make $1 an hour working in my facility, which allows me to budget for six calls per week, including the free ones. If the cost of phone calls dropped to 6 cents per minute, I would be able to make one additional call per week.
— Jeffrey McKee, Washington state
My brother is the only member of my family that has stuck by me through my prison sentence. He’s done all he can to help me prepare for reentry. Talking with him makes me feel less alone and calms my anxiety as my release date approaches.
I don’t have a lot of money. All of my calls and emails are on my own dime. Calls cost 6 cents a minute, so I mostly send short emails and wait days for replies.
If call fees remain the same, I will have to continue sacrificing purchases at commissary, including postage, to use the phone. I live on $50 a month of my own savings, rationed so I will have some money when I’m released.
— Daniel K. Talburt, Colorado
Because I have a life sentence, phone calls mean more to me. The prison where I reside is a long way from where my people live. and in-person visits are rare.
These days, it costs me 75 cents for a 15-minute call. My job pays 61 cents an hour. Everyone is limited to 45 minutes of phone time per day, and 21 calls per week.
Who do I call? The people who have remained in my life throughout this sentence. My uncle, dad’s baby brother, is my spiritual advisor. My mom is my mom, and my siblings keep me grounded and hopeful.
There are many other friends I call as well. Talking with them momentarily frees me from the confines. We talk about spirituality, happenings in the family, their neighborhoods and their personal lives. I feel much more positive when I’m able to talk to them regularly.
When I can’t, I feel lost and alone. My friends and family can sense my mood changes when I can’t or don’t call.
Prison can feel like living in a dark hole, but a phone call is a small speck of light keeping me from losing my mind. It’s a blessing to talk about things other than prison, where all day you hear: “Is there yard today?” “What guard is working the unit?” “What’s for chow?”
— Jeffery Shockley, Pennsylvania
My favorite person to call is my son, who is my only child. He was 4 years old when I “fell,” or was incarcerated, and is now 33 with three children of his own. Talking with him makes me feel more anchored to the world outside.
If I was unable to speak with my son, I would worry about him a lot. Anyone who loves their children will tell you that being a parent comes with a built-in degree of anxiety. You always worry if they’re OK when you’re not around them. Even though my son is grown, he is Black, lives in Philadelphia, and has seen many people close to him die from violence. My concern for his safety is warranted.
A 15-minute call costs 6 cents, much cheaper than in the past. Still, workers in my facility only earn a minimum of 23 cents per hour. Since I don’t have a job, I’m currently in the general labor pool, which is another name for jailhouse welfare. While in GLP, we receive around $18 a month. Phone time is sold in increments of $10, $15 and $25. When I am able to buy $10 of phone time, it usually lasts me about a month. I stretch it out by either keeping calls short or not making many calls.
Before, when phone calls cost $5 for 15 minutes, I could only afford to call home about once a month. I am very grateful for all the advocacy that has gotten us to this point so far. It is a lot easier to get someone to pick up a phone than pen and paper.
— Vaughn Wright, Pennsylvania