We created a pathway for them to reach out and groom folks.
California's ambitious effort to humanize its prison system through technology has surfaced a tension as old as reform itself: the gap between the ideals of rehabilitation and the realities of who is being rehabilitated. The state distributed nearly 90,000 tablets to inmates, including those on death row, as part of a Norway-inspired model meant to reduce recidivism and restore human connection. Instead, some of the state's most dangerous prisoners have turned these tools outward — toward pornography, exploitation, and in documented cases, the renewed terrorizing of their own victims. The question now is not merely one of oversight, but of whether any system of controls can close the distance between a noble intention and its most harmful consequences.
- Death row inmates openly boast about circumventing tablet security to access pornography and solicit explicit images, exposing a program meant for education as one riddled with exploitable gaps.
- In the most alarming documented case, a convicted child sex offender allegedly made thousands of calls to a former victim, threatened her, and pressured her into sending explicit images — all through a state-funded device.
- A $315 million contract with Securus Technologies and the state's flagship 'California model' now face serious scrutiny, with critics warning the program has created grooming pathways rather than rehabilitation pipelines.
- Corrections officials defend the tablets as tightly controlled tools for education and reentry, but the contradiction between that claim and inmate testimony is difficult to reconcile.
- With Governor Newsom's execution moratorium effectively making death row permanent, the stakes of how these prisoners are managed — and connected — have quietly but significantly shifted.
- Whether security controls can ever be made adequate, or whether the program itself poses an unacceptable risk to victims, remains an open and urgent question with no resolution in sight.
California distributed roughly 90,000 tablets to inmates as part of a rehabilitation-focused initiative officials call the 'California model,' inspired by Norway's prison system. The devices were intended to keep prisoners connected to family, provide educational resources, and ease eventual reentry into society. What followed has complicated that vision considerably.
Death row inmates have found consistent workarounds to the security controls. Robert Maury, convicted of murdering at least three women, described using video calls to watch pornography displayed on televisions outside prison walls, and claimed to have received explicit photographs from a young woman who contacted him under the guise of academic research. Samuel Amador, another convicted serial killer, said sexually explicit videos and messages circulate among inmates with relative ease. 'We get around their bullsh*t,' he told a reporter.
The most serious case involves Nathaniel Ray Diaz, a child sex offender at Avenal State Prison, who prosecutors say used the tablet system to make thousands of calls to a girl he had previously abused — threatening her and pressuring her to send explicit images, which she did through a third party. Former parole official Douglas Eckenrod put it plainly: 'We created a pathway for them to reach out and groom folks.'
The state recently signed a six-year contract with Securus Technologies potentially worth $315 million. The California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation continues to defend the tablets as controlled educational tools, pointing to the program's broader goals of reducing recidivism and improving outcomes for released inmates. But the defense sits uneasily alongside documented cases of victims being re-contacted and threatened.
Governor Newsom's 2019 moratorium on executions has effectively made death row a permanent population, lending new weight to how the state manages — and connects — its most dangerous prisoners. Some legislators want to make inmate messaging free entirely, arguing communication costs are unjust. Others are asking a harder question: whether any level of security oversight can make this program safe, or whether it represents a risk that no rehabilitation ideal can justify.
California's experiment in prison reform has collided with an uncomfortable reality: the state distributed roughly 90,000 tablets to inmates as part of a multimillion-dollar push toward what officials call the "California model"—a rehabilitation-focused approach inspired by Norway's prison system. The tablets were meant to let condemned prisoners stay connected to family, access educational materials, and prepare for reentry. Instead, death row inmates have found ways around the security controls, using the devices to watch pornography, solicit explicit images from people outside prison walls, and in at least one documented case, contact and threaten a victim of their own crimes.
Robert Maury, who murdered at least three women in the 1980s, told reporters he regularly watches pornography on his state-issued tablet. He described a workaround: inmates video call people on the outside who display pornography on their televisions, allowing the prisoner to watch. Maury also claimed he received a topless photograph from a 22-year-old German psychology student who approached him under the pretense of a class project. Samuel Amador, another death row inmate convicted of serial murder, said pornographic videos arrive in 30-second clips and that inmates exchange sexually explicit messages through the tablets with relative ease. "We get around their bullsh*t," Amador told a reporter, referring to the security measures meant to prevent such activity.
The most serious documented case involves Nathaniel Ray Diaz, a convicted child sex offender imprisoned at Avenal State Prison. Prosecutors say he made thousands of calls through the tablet system to a girl he had sexually abused, threatened her with a gun, and pressured her to send sexually explicit images—which she did, transmitted through a third party. Jamar Tucker, serving time for three murders, acknowledged receiving videos of women in minimal clothing despite explicit prohibitions. These are not isolated incidents but rather a pattern that corrections officials and outside observers say reveals a fundamental flaw in how the program was implemented and monitored.
The tablets themselves cost inmates nothing, but usage carries fees: five cents per text message, sixteen cents per minute for video calls. A woman incarcerated at the women's prison in Chino discovered that streaming movies costs the same as in the outside world—nearly nine dollars for a recent release, with only 48 hours to watch it before the rental expires. The state recently signed a six-year contract with Securus Technologies valued at $189 million, with optional extensions that could push the total to $315 million. Securus told reporters that messages should cost three cents each, though inmates and their contacts report inconsistencies in actual charges.
Douglas Eckenrod, a former deputy director of California's adult parole operations, framed the problem starkly: "We created a pathway for them to reach out and groom folks. There are going to be victims that didn't need to have been victims because of these decisions." The California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation has defended the tablets as "tightly controlled education tools" that provide access to the Bible, educational resources, and reentry programming designed to reduce recidivism. The agency points to the California model's broader goals—lowering crime rates among released inmates, improving staff wellness, and expanding job opportunities—as evidence the program serves a legitimate public purpose.
Yet the contradiction is stark. Governor Gavin Newsom issued a moratorium on executions in 2019, effectively converting death row into a permanent population rather than a pipeline to execution. In that context, the state's investment in inmate rehabilitation and communication takes on a different character. Some victims' advocates have expressed cautious support for rehabilitation programs, seeing them as a way to prevent future crimes. But the tablet program has created an unintended consequence: it has given some of the state's most dangerous prisoners—serial killers, child abusers—a direct line to the outside world and the ability to contact, threaten, and exploit people they have already harmed. Democratic state Senator Josh Becker is pushing to make inmate messages free, arguing that charging for basic communication is unjust and illogical in an era when telecommunications costs approach zero. But the broader question—whether the security controls on these devices can ever be adequate, or whether the program itself represents an unacceptable risk to victims—remains unresolved.
Citas Notables
We created a pathway for them to reach out and groom folks. There are going to be victims that didn't need to have been victims because of these decisions.— Douglas Eckenrod, former deputy director of California's adult parole operations
We get around their bullsh*t.— Samuel Amador, death row inmate, regarding security measures on the tablets
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did California distribute tablets to death row inmates in the first place?
The state was trying to implement what they call the California model—a rehabilitation-focused approach borrowed from Norway's prison system. The idea was to keep inmates connected to family, give them access to education, and prepare them for eventual release. But death row is different. These are people serving life sentences or waiting for execution. The program didn't account for that distinction.
How are inmates actually bypassing the security controls?
The methods are surprisingly simple. One common workaround is video calling someone on the outside who displays pornography on their television. The inmate watches through the tablet screen. For explicit images, people outside the prison send them through third parties or during video calls. The security measures exist, but they're not sophisticated enough to catch everything.
The case of Nathaniel Ray Diaz seems particularly troubling.
It is. He's a convicted child sex offender who used the tablets to make thousands of calls to a girl he had abused, threatened her with a gun, and coerced her into sending sexually explicit images. That's not a bug in the system—that's the system enabling ongoing abuse of someone who was already victimized.
What's the state's defense?
They say the tablets are education tools that reduce recidivism and help inmates reintegrate. And there's evidence that rehabilitation programs do work. But the state didn't build in adequate safeguards for the most dangerous prisoners or for protecting victims from contact and exploitation.
Who profits from this?
Securus Technologies holds the contract, worth $189 million over six years with potential extensions to $315 million. Inmates pay for usage—five cents per message, sixteen cents per minute for calls. Some are also charged nearly ten dollars to rent movies. The company is making money on both ends.
Is there any momentum to fix this?
A state senator is pushing to make messages free, arguing it's unjust to charge for basic communication. But that sidesteps the real problem: whether these devices should be in the hands of death row inmates at all, or whether the security can ever be tight enough to prevent predatory behavior.