A mother's nightmare

Pam Moser shares the sad story of her son's death in prison

I am honored to publish this heartbreaking essay written by Pam Moser, who lost her son Brian in ADOC last year, a year which saw the highest death toll inside Alabama prisons on record. Pam’s experience should outrage all of us: her son’s preventable death, his addiction and mental health exacerbated by prison trauma, and the ADOC’s horrendous handling of Brian’s end of life, compounding Pam’s grief and sorrow, piling on confusion, brittleness and shame.

Pam’s story is one of too many in Alabama, but it gives voice to the crisis of mass incarceration, how it reaches far beyond the razor wire and walls, ripping out the hearts of mothers, grandmothers, wives, children, families. We should not tolerate this any longer.

Thank you, Pam.

The sad story of my son's death in prison

By Pam Moser

I went to pick up my son’s ashes on October 17, 2023. He died on October 4th at Staton Correctional Facility Infirmary in Elmore, Alabama. He was 46 years old. 

Brian was smart, funny, and loved music.  He loved to read. Stephen King was his favorite author. 

Brian was also an addict and had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Around puberty, my son began to suffer from depression. It was around this time that he also began to abuse substances. 

Childhood photo of Brian Rigsby, courtesy of Pam Moser

Brian was highly intelligent, but could be a handful. He’d been in and out of Alabama’s overcrowded and violent prisons almost his entire adult life beginning at age 18 when he pleaded guilty to three burglaries. 

In 2003, he was arrested for robbing a pharmacy. This would lead to his longest stint in prison. After 13 years behind bars, he was granted parole in 2017. He remained free for one year, but struggled. I didn’t know how much of his erratic behavior was from his bipolar disorder, or from using drugs. 

One day during this time Brian went to a parole day reporting center for an evaluation. I wasn’t with him, but was told later Brian became belligerent with the woman who was doing the evaluation. He got upset, as he sometimes did, and threw a pencil against a wall. Officers searched him and found a two-inch pocket knife, a gift from his father. Brian was not supposed to have any weapons, so they locked him back up for a “technical violation,” meaning Brian didn’t break any laws, but possessing the pocket knife violated a rule of his parole. 

Brian Rigsby and Pam Moser in 2017, courtesy of Pam Moser

At his revocation hearing in Walker County, we were told Brian would most likely serve one year in prison for the violation. After two years, his parole was denied for three more years, even though he had kept a clear record in prison, staying out of trouble and not getting any disciplinary citations. 

During this time, Brian suffered two broken arms. At the time, he told me he’d slipped in the shower, but I don’t know if that’s the truth. 

After the second injury, the prison took weeks to send Brian to an outside doctor. He finally saw an orthopedist, but only after I wrote a letter to Governor Kay Ivey about his condition. By then, the arm had started to set and there was nothing to do but let it heal. 

Brian with his sister Elizabeth Neely in 2017, courtesy of Pam Moser

At his last parole hearing on July 13, 2023, the board denied his release again and said that he wouldn’t be considered for another five years. This time, I saw the life go out of Brian. Their decision to deny his parole and keep him in prison for another five years drained his hope. He’d been sent back for a minor parole violation, but the system didn’t care. 

I could go into so much over the years from Brian’s time in prison. He was only allowed to receive two books a month. Sometimes he could not go outside and get fresh air for weeks at a time. 

L-R Pam Moser, Elizabeth Neely, Brian Rigsby and father, Mitchell Rigsby in 2015

His father and I visited every chance we got. Sometimes his sisters joined us too. We’d be forced to wait in line for visits outside in the cold, rain or heat, depending on the time of year and which facility Brian was in at the time. There were different rules depending on which officer was there. Some visitors were allowed in, while others were turned away by prison staff for wearing something that didn’t meet the prison’s dress code, even though it seemed to me they had on the same type of clothing as everyone else. 

At one visit, Brian was telling me about something he had done, something minor. I asked him, “Are you supposed to do that?” Brian replied, “Momma, you don’t get it. This is how they train us.” What he meant was, prison taught them to break the rules, not correct themselves. 

One morning about a month after the last time he was denied parole, Brian called me. He was upset and said he had been stabbed and beat up by other men in the prison. He said he was bleeding, and went to a prison staffer for help who told him, “You did this to yourself.” 

I called the prison, Bullock Correctional Facility, and spoke to an officer who refused to give me her name. I told her about Brian’s phone call, and she told me, “He’s in prison. Of course he’s OK.” I asked her to please check on him anyway. She responded, “I’m looking at him on the camera. He’s sitting in the dorm room. He’s fine.” 

That Saturday, just a few days after my son was attacked, his father and I went to visit him. When Brian walked into the visitation room, we noticed the left side of his face was swollen and discolored, and his left eye was blackened. I looked at his left calf and saw on open stab wound about half an inch long. His left leg was red and swollen. I counted 5 lacerations on his head. 

I can’t describe the horror I felt at seeing my son like that. I can’t put into words the anger I experienced knowing that he could be injured so severely, and no one cared. It’s a feeling of complete powerlessness when trying to get help from someone in ADOC.  

I asked the officer in the visitation room whether Brian had seen a doctor. The officer said he didn’t know but would make sure that Brian saw someone in medical after visitation.  It didn’t happen. The officer also said to me, “Brian tends to provoke people.”

The following Monday, I left two detailed messages for the warden at Bullock prison. The next day I left two more messages. I also called ADOC’s central office in Montgomery and spoke with the ombudsman, the person who is supposed to help families of people in prison. This person told me that ADOC would investigate Brian’s situation, but that I was not allowed to know the results of their investigation. 

On Wednesday, I finally spoke with the warden of Bullock who told me that Brian had been sent to an outside hospital. He also said that there had been no report of a fight that left Brian injured. “I don’t know how we overlooked Brian,” he said. 

Brian ended up getting diagnosed with a skull and facial fracture, rib fractures and a stab wound. I was infuriated. How could this happen? How can someone be beaten so badly, and nobody in prison leadership knows about it? 

Thankfully, after Brian was treated for his injuries, ADOC sent him to Elmore Correctional Facility for his safety. Brian liked Elmore better. He could go outside, lay under a shade tree. 

Eight days later, Brian was admitted to the hospital again. I could not get any information about why or specifics about his condition, other than if he became terminal, we would be notified. I talked to the warden and asked if I could call Brian at the hospital. He said no. We didn’t even know what hospital he was in.  

Me: Can he call me?

Warden: No, he doesn’t have a phone.

Me: Can’t he use the hospital phone?

Warden: No. 

Me: Can I talk to the doctor?

Warden: No, that is not allowed, HIPPA.

Me: Brian will sign a HIPPA waiver.

Warden: We can’t do that. 

The following month, I received a call from a Sergeant at Kilby Correctional Facility letting us know that Brian was not doing well and the doctor at the hospital felt the family should come visit. I gave him all the information he requested and he said he would fax it to the hospital. By late afternoon, I had not heard anything, so I called him back. He was gone for the day. I spoke with another Sergeant, who said we had to set up the visit through the hospital. I told him I didn’t even know what hospital my son was in. 

“Jackson Hospital in Montgomery, room 549,” he said. 

So I called the hospital, and they said they hadn’t received the required letter from ADOC granting us permission for visitation. I call the Sergeant at Kilby prison back, who now said visitation had not been approved, that the Sergeant I’d talked to the previous day didn’t know what he was doing.  

I had such a feeling of dread. I wanted to scream, “I want to see my son while he’s still alive!” 

My daughter was flying in from Virginia. Brians father, Mitchell, started the drive from Indiana. We did not get to see Brian that day. The next morning I drove 90 miles with Mitchell, Brian’s sisters Elizabeth and Stacy Jo to Jackson Hospital, not knowing if we would get to see Brian or not. 

This was the confusion that went on for the next four days. Each day we drove to the hospital, hoping we’d see Brian. We made dozens of phone calls, and got different stories depending on who we talked to at three different prisons, all of them saying the other was responsible for approving visitation.

On the fourth day, we were driving home from hospital when I received a call from someone saying that visitation had been suspended because Brian was “better,” but the person could not tell me where she got that information.

The next morning, I called the warden at Kilby Correctional Facility. I was surprised to get her on the phone.

Me: Could you please tell me why visitation was suspended?

Warden: His condition has improved. He is now in comfort care.

Me: That does not mean he is getting better. It means they are stopping aggressive care. My son is dying. I want to spend as much time with him as I can.

Warden: We are all dying. 

I was furious, hurt, devastated. As a hospice nurse, I knew my son didn’t have long. Somehow, I’m still not sure how, our visitation was reinstated and we did get to see Brian in the hospital. We couldn’t bring him anything to read, or his favorite foods or pictures. The hospital eventually brought him a Bible and he asked his father to read from it, so he did. Brian was alert and talking, he even ate some food. I am so grateful for those four hours with my son, but it was not enough. 

Brian was taken to Staton Correctional Facility on September 27, 2023. The last week of his life, while he was in the prison infirmary, I could not see him or get any information about his condition, other than “he is stable.” 

Brian Rigsby and Pam Moser in undated photo, courtesy of Pam Moser

I had started the process of applying for a medical furlough with the help of Alabama Appleseed. Even if my son was dying, which I knew he most likely was, I wanted to care for him in his last days. 

During his last week, he was too weak to get out of bed to use the phone. We left messages at Elmore and Staton prisons daily to try to get a visit with Brian at the infirmary. We also left messages with multiple people at the prison, asking them to tell Brian that we loved him, that we were working on getting a visit, and that we had completed the paperwork for a medical furlough to try to get him home on hospice. I don’t know if he got any of the messages. The two wardens that we talked with both said they didn’t know when visitation was in the infirmary, but they would find out and let us know. Brian died before we were able to see him again.

On Wednesday, October 4, 2023, I got the call that Brian had died that morning at 12:25 am. I asked the warden if I could talk to anyone who was with him in the last 24 hours, to hear how my son’s final hours played out. “No,” he said.  

I was heartbroken and I still am.  My anger at this system is overwhelming. To let a person die alone in prison when he has family that loves him and wants to be with him during his final time on this earth. It’s just unimaginable. The ADOC took away any chance of being with Brian during his last hours alive. 

The last time I spoke with Brian, he told me “I’ve got you a letter started. I will finish it when I get back.” Brian always ended his letters with KPTOW – Keep Passing The Open Windows. This is based on a story about a suicidal person who sees an open window, but walks past it instead of jumping out. I believe Brian meant, no matter how bad it gets, I’ll just keeping passing the open windows, and you do too. 

When we made arrangements to pick up Brian’s remains, I asked the warden for my son’s belongings. I kept thinking about that last letter that he was writing to me and I wanted to have it. But just like every other encounter with ADOC throughout this ordeal, I’ve made numerous calls about receiving my son’s possessions

with no results. After months of waiting, the last I was told is Brian’s belongings must have been lost. They can’t find them. I will never get them back. 

I visited Brian in prison regularly with his father, but we were not allowed to see him during the last seven days of his life. I can’t help but think of those incarcerated men and women who do not have anyone to advocate for them. How lonely and helpless they must feel. What kind of system is this? When one breaks the law, they lose their freedom, but not their rights and dignity as human beings.

I know my son is at peace now, but the way his end of life was handled was not humane, kind or caring. Not for him and not for those of us who loved him. I can only hope and pray that sharing my experience will help lead to change.