Phone calls from prison are finally being capped at 6 cents a minute. But there’s more to do | Katrina vanden Heuvel

You'd be forgiven for falling behind on your federal regulatory news this past month. But amid the chaos of an assassination attempt on the Republican nominee, the self-removal of the Democratic nominee, the meme-ification of the current vice-president, and a flat Diet Mountain Dew joke from her would-be successor, the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) passed a historic measure that will change the lives of millions of incarcerated people and their loved ones.

For decades, activists and lawmakers have fought to reduce the cost of calls from prison. As I wrote about in 2021, many prisoners and their loved ones have paid as much as a dollar or more per minute to stay in touch. This exorbitant cost has disproportionately driven women and people of color into debt, while the correctional telecom industry - about 80% of which is controlled by just two companies - extracted over $1.4bn a year.

Under the FCC's new rule, this exploitative environment is finally changing. The cost of a phone call from prison will be capped at 6 cents per minute, and video call charges won't exceed 16 cents per minute. Rates will vary in jails depending on population size, but the implication remains the same: in America, incarcerated people can no longer be gouged for wanting to connect with their loved ones.

That's the immediate benefit. Over the long term, the FCC's new rule has the potential to open another important channel of communication: a national discussion about the rights of incarcerated people.

Technically, this reform was made possible by Joe Biden signing the Martha Wright-Reed Just and Reasonable Communications Act last January. That law granted the FCC the regulatory authority to set call prices within state lines, instead of just across them. But the credit truly belongs to longtime activists, including the law's namesake. Wright-Reed was a Black, blind grandmother who sued CoreCivic, then the Corrections Corporation of America, over two decades ago for running up her phone bill while she kept in touch with her incarcerated grandson. Even before a law with her name landed on the Resolute desk, she and countless advocates had successfully pressured the FCC to begin reducing the cost of prison telecommunications.

For such activists, the FCC's new regulations represent a good start - and just that. They have a broader agenda of sweeping yet sensible reforms to tackle next. Several states - California, Colorado, Connecticut, Massachusetts and Minnesota - have made calls completely free, a move the other 45 state legislatures could follow. And telecom companies are still charging families for digital messages - which the FCC concluded the Martha Wright-Reed Act does not allow them to regulate. Exploitative practices like that one illustrate just how deep the need for reform is within this industry.

But further progress could be stymied by our nation's ambivalent attitudes toward incarcerated people. While 80% support criminal justice reform in theory, they're not aligned on what reform looks like. In fact, 58% of Americans don't think that this country's criminal justice system is tough enough - a disturbing spike from the record low of 41% in 2020.

If America's policies affecting the incarcerated are going to change, America's perceptions of the incarcerated might have to change first. And across culture and politics, there may soon be such an opportunity.

Just this month, US theaters showed A24's Sing Sing, a moving drama based on the true story of the Rehabilitation Through the Arts program, which aims to break the cycle of incarceration by allowing prisoners to explore their humanity through performance. The film, which some call an early Best Picture frontrunner, stars Colman Domingo alongside a cast of formerly incarcerated actors - actual alumni of the program. They join a generation of formerly incarcerated artists - like the poet and 2021 MacArthur fellow Reginald Dwayne Betts - who are using their talents to urge a national shift from contempt to compassion.

Meanwhile, this election cycle, the word "incarceration" has been uttered almost exclusively in conjunction with Donald Trump's 34 convictions. Kamala Harris has used her courtroom chops to prove she can prosecute the case against her opponent. But in embracing this aspect of her political background, the vice-president could risk alienating criminal justice advocates. They may remember her less compassionate actions as California's attorney general, like refusing supreme court orders to relieve prison overcrowding so the state could keep using inmates' $2-a-day labor for firefighting. If Harris wants to underscore the "progressive" part of her progressive prosecutor brand, it may behoove her to offer a plan to improve prison conditions for the 2 million people currently serving their sentences.

A good way to start could be recruiting a running mate who restored voting rights to a historic 140,000 felons, or passed legislation to overhaul their state's parole system, or signed a sweeping criminal justice reform package. But regardless of the VP's pick, Harris has the power to offer a progressive platform of ambitious change for the incarcerated individuals who are still being denied their right to vote, be paid for their labor and be protected from inhumane conditions like solitary confinement.

Though Wright-Reed died almost a decade ago, her grandson reflected on her legacy by saying: "It's just amazing how far [the movement] has come because of the steps that she took at the very beginning."