“Good afternoon. My name is Ms. Ahuja—A-H-U-J-A, for the record. I am an Independent Correctional Adjudicator and will be presiding over your matter today. I have the authority to conduct this disciplinary hearing from the Assistant Deputy Minister under the Correction Act Regulation,” I routinely begin.

I look at him more closely. I can tell that he is unwell. Most here are, but he appears to be very unwell. Why is he before me? I ask myself in a more of a statement kind of way. He can barely stand straight. I observe as he wobbles slightly forward and back. Jesus, not another one of these cases. “Do you know how long you’ve been at the centre?” I ask. I hear him murmur under his breath. “Sorry, Mr. Wolfe, I can’t hear you. Can you speak a little louder, please?”

This is my fourth hearing today, all assault charges. The graphic images of a stabbing, a three-on-one assault, and hot buttering are still fresh in my memory. For a split second, I imagine the feeling of boiling butter glued to my back, from my head down, as the first three layers of my skin burn. I learned early on that prison violence involved butter. Butter? I feel a shiver creep up my spine. I force the image aside, at least for now. I know it will find me later in my sleep.

I notice that I am concentrating slightly more than usual so that I can hear his voice. I hate these particular cases—the ones where they are simply too unwell to be standing before me. Why is he even here? What is the centre possibly thinking? I feel my frustration mounting.

I began my role less than a year ago, and it seems to me that prison staff are having difficulty understanding the concept of procedural fairness. Replacing Assistant Deputy Wardens hasn’t been a smooth transition; I face daily pushback, with officers grunting or rolling their eyes. But the bottom line is: if a prisoner can’t stand up straight, they can’t make fully informed decisions about their institutional charge. 

I did not anticipate how much time I’d spend bridging this gap: explaining to the officers in the room that a prisoner must be well enough so they can meaningfully participate, and that they have a right to a fair hearing—to know and understand the case against them, and to access summary advice if they choose. If I don’t run a fair hearing, then the process is pointless. 

How can we expect prisoners to correct their behaviour if they aren’t coherent enough to understand why they are appearing before me? 

 “I don’t know how long I’ve been in custody.” I hear him say, in a deeper voice. He pauses, then goes on, “I’m adjusting to my new pain medication. I don’t feel so well.”

“Officer Barns, what are Mr. Wolfe’s conditions of confinement? Where is he housed in the centre?” I ask because where he is housed will determine how long it is reasonable to postpone the matter.

“Ma’am, he is in isolation under medical observation,” the officer replies. “Same conditions as segregation—he is confined for twenty-two hours a day. He is also under Special Handling Protocols, so he must be escorted by two officers. His smock was removed yesterday.”

I feel claustrophobic for a moment. Just thinking about an anti-suicide smock over my shoulders makes it hard to breathe.

“Ms. Ahuja, the centre is prepared to proceed with this evidentiary hearing today,” says Officer Barns, the officer tasked with presenting the centre’s case.

“Mr. Wolfe, the centre is prepared to proceed with your hearing, but it is apparent to me that you are not well enough to participate. Should I postpone your hearing to a different day when you are feeling better?” I ask.

“My eldest foster sister died. They said she was drinking too much. And my other sister killed herself. Now Melanie is gone…I need to talk to a psychiatrist.”

“Mr. Wolfe, your hearing is postponed until Wednesday. This hearing is now concluded. Officer Barns, I am ready for the next matter."

Author’s Note: The cases are drawn from my experience as an external independent decision-maker presiding over disciplinary hearings for BC Corrections (2021–2023). Identifying details have been changed to respect confidentiality and protect privacy.

Explore the Terms: To better understand the institutional terms used in this post, you can explore my Beyond the Bars Prison Glossary.

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Meet Harpreet: Harpreet Ahuja is a lawyer, human rights consultant, and social justice advocate driven by the conviction that systems need reimagining. Her work explores the intersection of law, policy, and lived experience—and tells the human stories behind injustice. Harpreet is based in Vancouver on the traditional, ancestral and unceded territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations, and publishes on her website.