Sara Kielly is an investigative journalist and jailhouse lawyer whose writing has been featured in Solitary Watch, Slate, New York Focus, and other outlets. As an Irish-American transgender woman incarcerated at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility in New York, she uses both her journalism and legal advocacy to expose the harms of solitary confinement and the impact of the carceral system on marginalized communities.

Kielly’s piece recounts her experience defending a fellow incarcerated woman facing solitary confinement for a disciplinary infraction. The Humane Alternatives to Solitary Confinement (HALT) Act protects Kielly’s ability to represent people in disciplinary hearings that could result in a solitary confinement sanction. Through her legal work, Kielly emphasizes the need for consistent enforcement of the HALT Act, which requires strict limits on the use and duration of segregated confinement in New York State correctional facilities.

Last month, a New York state court overturned a previous suspension of parts of the HALT Act that the New York Department of Corrections and Community Service (DOCCS) instituted following a wildcat strike by correctional officers. In response to a class-action lawsuit filed by the Legal Aid Society, the court found that the suspension of HALT resulted in irreparable harm for incarcerated people in New York by abusing the leeway of the “facility-wide emergency” exception in the law and holding people in isolation for 21 to 24 hours a day. On July 11, 2025, the HALT Act went fully back into effect, although problems with implementation remain. 

To reach the author of this piece, please write to the following address: “Sara Kielly 21G0314, 247 Harris Road, Bedford Hills, NY 10507” or create an account on Securus and add: “Sara Kielly 21G0314.” —Lena Massengale

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“Oh my God, I don’t remember that at all. I can’t believe I did that,” said my incarcerated client, as she and I watched body-camera footage during her Tier 3 disciplinary hearing with the hearing officer. “I’m so sorry, I must have blacked out when the officer put his hands on me.”

“Née, I’m advising you to not say anything right now,” I replied, leaning over so my words would not be captured on the record. “Anything you say is on record, and it can be used against you.”

Née and I sat in a superintendent’s disciplinary hearing at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. As a jailhouse lawyer, I was serving as a representative at the hearing for Née, who was accused of serious disciplinary infractions, including a charge of “unsanitary acts” due to “spitting on an officer.” 

My client was a woman who has survived unimaginable abuse and traumas in her life and suffers from acute mental health issues, including post-traumatic stress disorder. Being that she was facing a Tier 3 sanction, the possibility of solitary confinement was on the table. However, solitary confinement would be counterproductive for this incarcerated woman, because it would interfere with her substance abuse treatment program and exacerbate her mental health and trauma conditions.

After the body-camera footage was over, I addressed the hearing officer. “For the record, I’m going to ask for a short recess to confer with my client privately.”

Once my client and I were alone, I told her the truth. “Née, the video is clear, and I hate to say it—but you are guilty of some of these charges. I’m going to advise we change the plea from not guilty to guilty on some of these counts, pivot our defense to a mental health argument, and focus on mitigating the sanctions.”

“I know, I know, Sara. I can’t believe it,” Née replied. “I don’t remember any of that happening—that wasn’t me. I can’t explain it.”

“You may not be able to explain it, but I can. You have experienced catastrophic abuse since you were a child, you have significant mental health issues, and to be frank, I saw the moment you disassociated,” I said. “You were too far gone, and there was nothing you could do to ground yourself. Once the officer grabs you from behind and you’re screaming for him to get off you as he’s on top of you on the ground—I saw a victim in a flashback, not an incarcerated individual resisting restraint.”

At this point, Née was crying and begging me to understand that she did not deliberately choose to spit on the officer. I squatted down in front of her and said, “Née, you don’t need to justify yourself to me. I saw what happened on that video. Many survivors would have had a flashback and responded the same way.”

When my client and I went back into the hearing, I argued that this was a mental-health crisis for a woman who has survived gender-based, domestic, and sexual violence throughout her life. The hearing officer seemed sympathetic, but when we received the disposition, my client was found guilty of all but one charge—and sentenced to 60 days restricted confinement and loss of recreation. This meant Née would likely spend two weeks in solitary in a SHU (Special Housing Unit) cell, and the rest of her sentence in a high-security environment called a Residential Rehabilitation Unit. 

The guilty dispositions were expected, but the sanctions were a shock to the system—particularly since I had already argued on the record that none of the charges qualified for solitary confinement pursuant to the Humane Alternatives to Long-Term Solitary Confinement Act. 

However, the hearing officer and disciplinary officer believed that the act of “spitting on an officer” did in fact qualify for a Special Housing Unit sanction. After my client was cuffed and placed in a holding cell to await escort to the SHU, I sat down with the hearing officer and insisted on discussing the particulars of the HALT law’s solitary justification provisions. 

“Respectfully, you’re in abject violation of New York Corrections Law section 137 (viii)(k)(ii),” I explained. “My client cannot be given an SHU sanction. None of these charges justify solitary confinement.”

“Absolutely not, spitting is eligible. I’ll show you,” said the hearing officer as she pulled out the confinement justification form. As she looked at the form, I could see the moment she realized I was right. “What the…Oh, shit, you’re right. I’m going to have to re-justify this.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but the disposition has already been made. I cannot and will not allow you to go back on the record to find another way to justify confinement. The only thing I can permit is you reopening the hearing to revoke the confinement sanction,” I replied.

“Okay, I don’t have a choice here. Tell the officer to bring her back in.” As soon as I told the disciplinary officer, an approximately 20-minute debate ensued between the hearing officer and the superintendent, deputy superintendent of security, and an SHU sergeant—who all insisted that the hearing officer was not to reverse the SHU sanction.

I could not help but hear the hearing officer’s final response: “I’m sorry, superintendent, but Miss Kielly is right. I would be breaking the law by sending this incarcerated individual to SHU; these charges simply don’t justify it, and I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I don’t correct this here and now. It’s done; I’m reversing the SHU sanctions.” She hung up without further discussion.

In that moment, I felt my heart swell, and all I could do was thank God for intervening on my client’s behalf. In thirteen and a half years, I have never heard any sweeter words while representing others as a jailhouse lawyer and disciplinary representative. In a criminal justice and correctional system that is so broken that procedural and sentencing laws are treated as discretionary, those in power can do whatever they want and tell you to grieve or appeal the rulings. This was the elusive victory I had dreamed of as an advocate but never thought I would see, let alone be a part of.

However, the joy of witnessing the hearing officer’s choice to uphold my client’s rights can never compare to the joy of telling Née that she was not going to spend the next two months in solitary confinement. I approached the holding pen, squatted down in front of my client and told her, “Née, I need you to stay calm and breathe for me when I tell you this. You are not going to SHU today. Don’t pass go, don’t collect $200, don’t see the inside of a SHU cell. Your SHU sanction is being reversed.”

Née’s jaw dropped open, and she immediately burst into loud, guttural sobs. As she started to hyperventilate, I struggled to keep myself from breaking down. All I could do was tell her to breathe slowly, as tears slid down my cheeks.

“Officer Lopez, please get her out of this holding pen and pop these cuffs off her,” I said to the disciplinary officer, as my voice broke with emotion. Moments like this are rare in prison, and exemplify humanity in the carceral system at its best—even if it’s not perfect. The HALT law, while under attack by right-wing politicians, corrections officers and their unions, and prison administrators, is integral to ensuring true and holistic rehabilitation of incarcerated individuals. And while many of those in positions of power do not mind violating HALT’s rules, there are some who respect the spirit and the letter of the law. Without HALT and my zealous advocacy permitted by that law, Née would have been thrown into a solitary confinement cell. As a result, she would only have felt more bitter and unequipped to reacclimate to the general prison population and to the community upon release.

A security staff member, who asked to remain anonymous and was present during the incident that led to the disciplinary hearing, told me, “I am glad that she did not go to SHU. She was clearly upset and reacting to a volatile situation that never had to happen. I felt bad for her as they were taking her off the unit, because they were hurting her with too-tight cuffs; and while she was wrong for what she did, I don’t believe she deserved to go to SHU.”

This staff member’s comment only validated exactly why I do this work. However, what Née expressed to me as we walked together out of the disciplinary building after her hearing ended changed my perspective on the work I do. 

“I’ve been angry at God for a long time and often ask Him why He allows these things to happen to me if He loves me,” she said. “I felt abandoned and was questioning if He even existed. And then, as I’m asking Him one last time to help me, you came to the gate of the holding pen and told me you were able to reverse the SHU sanction. Right then, I knew God had answered my prayer, and for the first time in my life, He showed me He was there in all of this.”

When I began doing this work, I did so out of a love for the law, a sense of justice and equity, and a desire to even the playing field for my clients in a system that is perpetually stacked against us. Never did I expect my work to help another incarcerated woman meet God and experience His miraculous mercy in a SHU holding cell.

Banner Photo Credit: The Bronx Defenders photo featured in the New York Amsterdam News