Jason Allen is pretty sure ChatGPT can come up with a better legal strategy than him.
Mr. Allen, 42, who is serving a life sentence for murder at a maximum-security prison near Baltimore, is considering a lawsuit over the frequency of cancer screenings there. He’d heard enough about ChatGPT to seek its help—but inmates aren’t allowed to roam the Internet freely, let alone tinker with artificial intelligence.
So Mr. Allen called a friend outside the prison, Jessup Correctional Institution, who asked ChatGPT to outline potential legal arguments. A friend sent screenshots of the chatbot’s responses via the prison’s messaging system. Mr. Allen received them about a week and a half later, after approval by correctional staff.
“AI is a tool that could help people find justice. It could put pressure on them to do the right thing,” Mr. Allen said in a telephone interview. “I’m still in the stone age.
Prisons have long restricted inmates’ access to technology, fearing they could use it to break rules or commit crimes. The internet is mostly banned, along with AI-powered chatbots.
But as the hype surrounding the technology has permeated prison yards and cells, many inmates are eager to try it out. They attend workshops and classes to learn about AI They ask friends to snail mail printouts of chatbot responses. Some inmates even use contraband cell phones to gain access to the technology.
Result? Legal documents, essays, AI generated business plans and even a custom board game or two.
“The guys inside are really hungry for knowledge about AI,” said Kenyatta Leal, executive director of Next Chapter, a nonprofit that helps ex-prisoners get jobs in the tech industry. “Those who know how to create and deploy AI will be the architects of the future.”
Others say it’s too dangerous because inmates could use it to break rules or even plan an escape.
“There are too many risks with this technology,” said Mike Thurmer, a board member of the Association of American Deputy Wardens who served as a prison warden in Wisconsin. “During my years we had many inmates who even abused the phone system.”
Mr. Leal recently led a workshop on AI at the San Quentin Rehabilitation Center in California for about 60 inmates. Mr Leal, who served 19 years to life for gun possession as an ex-felon before his release in 2013, was peppered with questions about how artificial intelligence works.
“We are in the age of dinosaurs in prison,” wrote one inmate who attended the workshop on an anonymous feedback form shared with The New York Times. “We need an AI APPROACH,” wrote another.
In order to teach his entrepreneurship class at the Utah State Correctional Facility in Salt Lake City, Michael Ulibarri asks ChatGPT about his students’ projects and brings hard copies of his answers to discuss. He said his students hoped they could eventually use technology to make their business ideas a reality.
“Their technology is limited to a tablet,” said Mr. Ulibarri, an instructor at Defy Ventures, a nonprofit that helps people prepare for life after prison. “I think technology is their biggest drawback, the way we follow trends.”
But some law enforcement experts say it would be difficult to control inmates’ broader access to technology.
“Open access to AI could allow inmates to bypass communications monitoring and plan illegal activities or access harmful information,” said Kimora, a prison educator and professor at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. “Let’s face it: You and I probably believe it would be nice to care about people and be compassionate, but some people in prison aren’t like that.”
At Jessup, made up of stocky brick buildings dotted with security towers and surrounded by layers of barbed wire fence, inmates have limited access to tablets to monitor messages, calls and screened content such as news articles and the radio.
The state prison, which holds people convicted of serious crimes such as rape and murder, prohibits AI access “to protect institutional security, prevent the misuse of communications technology and protect the public, staff, victims and those in our custody,” said Yianni Varonis, a spokesman for the Maryland Department of Public Safety and Correctional Services.
This did not stop the prisoners from trying. Some secretly modified their tablets to gain Internet access, according to three people with knowledge of the prison who requested anonymity to discuss rule-breaking behavior that could lead to discipline. One inmate, who sells movies to other inmates after downloading them to an illegal cellphone, tried to use AI to add subtitles to foreign films, one of the people said.
“Allegations of misconduct by employees or incarcerated individuals are taken with the utmost seriousness and are promptly reviewed through established investigative procedures,” Mr. Varonis said in a statement. The department had no evidence that any tablets had been “altered or tampered with,” he added.
Other prisoners found solutions within the rules.
Nick Browning, a 34-year-old inmate at Jessup who has been incarcerated since his youth for murder, had his first opportunity to use AI last October during a video call with a jail-approved attorney.
“He took a picture of me and painted it like a Van Gogh,” Mr. Browning said in a telephone interview. “It was so great to see.
AI can also be practical. Mr. Browning, who earned a master’s degree in business while in prison, helps teach a financial literacy class at the prison. One of the other instructors, also incarcerated, asked his sister to use AI to design a Game of Life-style educational board game for the classroom, complete with a custom logo.
“We’ve all been using AI this way because it’s the only way we can access it,” Mr Browning said.
Tony Fleming, a 59-year-old Jessup man serving a life sentence for murder, wants to start a nonprofit to help incarcerated people reintegrate into society. So he sent chatbot prompts to his sister from his tablet.
She put the instructions into ChatGPT and asked him to design a detailed plan for the nonprofit. She sent him back a 17-page reply.
“I don’t even know how to follow the AI, but it did it for me,” Mr Fleming said. “I’ve been here 30 years. I don’t know if it’s typing or scanning. I don’t even know how to use a computer.”
Jessup charges inmates 45 cents for each 15-minute phone call and 20 cents for incoming text messages. This adds up when trying to access AI.
When Mr. Allen tried to write his legal complaint to demand more cancer screenings, he said he spent about $10 — the equivalent of a week’s wages as a prison counselor.
He spent weeks phoning and texting friends because some fellow inmates believed they had developed prostate cancer after Jessup failed to get a scan done in time.
(Mr. Varonis, a spokesman for Maryland Public Safety and Correctional Services, said the prison does prostate cancer screening based on individual risk factors. It follows “the same clinical protocols and standards that doctors in the wider community follow,” he added.)
Mr Allen eventually gave up after burning the cash his family had sent him to make the phone calls. He also strained his relationship with some friends.
After three or four calls, one asked, “Are you really my friend or are you just using me for AI?” said Mr. Allen.
Alain Delaquérière contributed research.
