Florida families blindsided after free inmate phone calls defunded

Every first of the month, Heather Leitl and her kids raced to the phone.

The prisons' free phone call minutes would reset like clockwork, and Leitl's four kids were eager to hear their father's voice for the little time they had. Their quality time with their father was limited to seven minutes a month. But at the start of September, it was reduced to zero.

"It's kind of a horrible feeling," Leitl said. "He is my partner, so I try to share everything with him that I can, and not having him, it's hard for all of us."

Leitl's family is one of many across the state that benefitted from a pilot program designed to award Florida inmates one free 15-minute phone call a month if they displayed good behavior. But the program didn't survive state budget talks this year, and funding ran out last month.

Inmates at her husband's prison, Lawtey Correctional Institution in Bradford County, found out the hard way when they didn't have access to their anticipated phone privileges this month.

"Nobody knew," Leitl said. "Everyone there in the prison was confused."

In the wake of sudden isolation and no relief in sight, families and advocates are speaking out, saying these free minutes are crucial because phone calls provide human connection vital for inmates' rehabilitation.

On Monday, Florida Attorney General Ashley Moody — in conjunction with 13 other attorney generals — filed a lawsuit against the Federal Communications Commission in an attempt to stop a new FCC rule that would lower the maximum rates states are allowed to charge for prison calls.

The FCC cap for a phone call would be reduced from 14 cents to six cents per minute. Families are currently charged 13½ cents a minute whenever they call their loved ones in a Florida prison.

Though the inmate phone call program rose to the state level, the idea started with University of Florida students roughly two years ago.

Members of the Florida Student Policy Forum — a UF organization that researches political issues and develops legislative solutions — read an article in the Harvard Political Review about the exorbitant amounts of money families spend making phone calls to prison.

Realizing this was an applicable issue to Florida prisons, the students put their heads together.

"The idea is fairly simple," said Graham Bernstein, the group's director of public affairs. "You keep someone in touch with the outside world ... they're less likely to reoffend."

Bernstein said they started with the Alachua County Commission and established free phone calls for inmates in the Alachua County Jail. Then they brought their idea to Sen. Jennifer Bradley, Sen. Keith Perry and former Sen. Jeff Brandes.

The legislators developed the students' idea into the incentivized pilot program that was ultimately implemented Oct. 1, 2023, and funded it by redirecting dollars from the Inmate Welfare Trust Fund, Bernstein said.

"The main way the Inmate Welfare Trust Fund is funded is by the things the families of the incarcerated are paying for," he said.

Under the current rate, a 15-minute call costs $2.03 and an hour call costs $8.10. Every time the phone services in the prisons are used, a portion of the fee is paid to the Florida Department of Corrections, and these commissions are added to the trust fund.

The pilot program received $1 million in non-recurring funds in 2023 from the Inmate Welfare Trust Fund, according to a senate conference report on last year's appropriations. But this year, legislators pushed for $1 million in recurring and $1 million in non-recurring funds and the whole initiative got vetoed by Gov. Ron DeSantis.

Based on his conversations with Jake Felder, the DOC's director of legislative affairs, Bernstein said everything seemed to be running smoothly, and he's been trying to figure out why the program's funding got pulled.

"When I asked (Felder), 'How is the pilot program going?' he never told me anything other than it's going well and we're satisfied with it," Bernstein said.

Brandes, who has been out of office since 2022, said he can't imagine why "we'd want to rip the phone away from somebody who simply wants to connect with their family."

Family connections are imperative for re-entry, Brandes said, and the state should be working to do whatever it can to facilitate these. "It's literally the least we can do to help them on their journey to becoming a productive citizen," he said.

Phone calls are inmates' chance to be encouraged and realize they are more than their worst day that landed them in these positions, he said. The system is really challenging and these men and women need every lifeline they can get.

This pilot program was an opportunity for the state to show grace, Brandes said: "These are dads calling their kids, husbands calling their wives."

The situation is unfair all around, Bernstein said.

Humans require human connection, and "phone calls are a bridge to that," he said. Without free, or at the very least, affordable phone calls, inmates are cut off from the rest of the world, which is the connection many need to rehabilitate and get out of prison, he said. And if people are reoffending, taxpayers are spending more money to keep these people in prison.

Plus, a financial burden lands on the family of the incarcerated who didn't do anything wrong, Bernstein added.

"I really think we need to do more to help families," said Karen Stuckey, a prison reform advocate who worked with Bernstein to promote the phone call program. The loss of funding this year was "a real shocker" and a "horrible, horrible mistake," she said.

Stuckey's husband has been incarcerated for the last 25 years with five more to go, and her son just recently got out of prison. Within a two-year period, she calculated that she spent $6,095 on prison phone calls.

Her husband was transferred to a private prison recently so the pilot program didn't help Stuckey, but she knows many other families, including Leitl's, who were beyond grateful to be granted any sort of relief.

"Every first of the month for the last five months, that is the only way that my children are able to speak with (their father)," Leitl said. "Due to the inflation ... with responsibility for myself and my children, I have no money to put on the phone on top of sending him commissary as well."

And there's no money for gas to make the three-hour drive to visit him, she said. Her family hasn't seen him in two years; these phone calls were pretty much all they had.

It's important to keep fathers connected to their children, Stuckey said. They need it for their mental health while in prison and to keep from creating the next cycle of dysfunctional kids.

Leitl said her fiancé does the best he can to be involved in his kids' lives. The kids excitedly share what they're learning in school, but only gets seven minutes with him before he uses his other seven minutes to call his other children with a different woman.

Almost as soon as they say hello, the joy is interrupted by an automated woman's voice: "You have one minute remaining."

"I can't stand that lady's voice," Leitl said.

Elena Barrera is the breaking & trending news reporter for the Tallahassee Democrat, a member of the USA TODAY NETWORK – Florida. She can be reached at [email protected]. Follow her on X: @elenabarreraaa.