Another Day, Another Dollar

I love crime dramas. I love the anticipation of the opening credits, the intricacies of a plot designed to mislead, and the thrill of trying to identify the culprit before the big reveal. I cheer on the detectives as they follow the clues, unravel the mystery, and ultimately bring the perpetrator to justice. I especially love the ending, when justice is served and the case is closed. Then the credits roll, and I move on to the next episode, rarely thinking twice about the person sentenced to prison.

For many people, this is the extent of their understanding of the criminal justice system. It’s a CSI episode—clear-cut, dramatic, and neatly resolved. Maybe, for some, it extends into the courtroom like a Law & Order episode: attorneys debating, a jury deliberating, a judge handing down a verdict, and a defendant led away in handcuffs. 

Whether or not you believe these portrayals are accurate, they shape the common perception of justice in America. But this view barely scratches the surface. Most people don’t see what happens behind the scenes for many who experience the system firsthand, a reality where they are forced into the background of society once the gavel falls and the sentence is served.

Time passes. Time is served. And when the release date comes, it brings hope for a second chance, a chance at reentry into society with the belief that the system worked. But then that release day passes. And the next day. And the next day. This is the harsh reality for many incarcerated individuals in Louisiana. 

In 2023, the U.S. Department of Justice found that more than a quarter of Louisiana’s prison population had been held past their scheduled release dates —an egregious violation of constitutional and human rights that amounts to what can only be called Unconstitutional Captivity. But who’s to blame? 

When people are held in prison past their legal release dates, accountability becomes a game of hot potato. Incarcerated people often blame the corrections administrators and officers, who are responsible for their custody and expected to process release paperwork accurately and promptly. Those administrators and officers, in turn, blame the lawyers, many of whom are overworked public defenders managing staggering caseloads with limited time and resources. Those attorneys may miss critical updates, fail to flag administrative errors, or lack the capacity to follow up on release orders. The lawyers then point fingers back at a bloated, underfunded, and outdated system, one that is riddled with poor data sharing, inefficient bureaucracy, and little-to-no oversight. No one wants to take ownership. Everyone passes the buck.

But while the cycle of deflection continues, one group consistently pays the price: the public, who has to foot the bill, even as the state faces a growing budget deficit. According to The Louisiana Illuminator, it costs the state nearly $70 a day to house a person in prison.

To try to address this injustice, State Rep. Edmond Jordan filed House Bill 650 in the 2025 Regular Session, with the assistance of our team at Louisiana Progress. It aimed to disrupt the cycle of unconstitutional captivity. The bill proposed $70 per day in compensation for wrongfully detained individuals, the same amount the state spends to hold someone. This alignment placed a tangible, visible dollar value on the cost of injustice. 

House Bill 650 also sought to address this problem using a fiscally responsible funding mechanism, that wouldn’t further burden everyday taxpayers, by increasing the tax on mobile sports wagering from 15% to 17%, and directing 2% of that revenue to a newly created Over Detention Compensation Fund. The fund would have been administered by the Louisiana Commission on Law Enforcement and Administration of Criminal Justice and empowered the Commission to establish the necessary rules and regulations to ensure the law’s proper implementation. The new revenue would have been used to pay $70 per day to individuals who are wrongfully held beyond their release dates, with any leftover tax revenue going to Louisiana’s general fund. 

Importantly, the compensation wouldn’t have taken away a person’s right to seek further civil remedies. In addition to providing overdue accountability, HB 650 would have been a step toward justice, not only in principle but in practice. It would have acknowledged the harm done by overdetention and offered tangible restitution. It would have reaffirmed that justice does not end when the sentence is handed down, but only when it is fully served. It could have been a critical step toward transparency and accountability, ensuring the price of government failure is no longer invisible or ignored.

The financial consequences of inaction also extend well beyond daily incarceration costs. The state remains exposed to expensive legal challenges. In one case, Percy Taylor sued Louisiana prison officials for miscalculating his release date, resulting in an over detention of nearly two years. While a lower court denied qualified immunity to Department of Corrections Secretary James LeBlanc, the Fifth Circuit reversed the decision, ruling that LeBlanc wasn’t personally liable because sentence calculations are typically handled by non-lawyers. Taylor lost the case, but it signals ongoing vulnerability to future legal challenges.

This is not just a human rights crisis. It’s a fiscal liability. Every day someone is wrongfully imprisoned, Louisiana’s justice system becomes more expensive, more fragile, and more unjust. Until the state acknowledges the systemic nature of over detention and stops the finger-pointing, Louisianans will continue to pay—financially and morally—for a broken system that refuses to take responsibility.

Unfortunately, despite its promise and potential impact, House Bill 650 did not pass. But just because this legislative season has ended doesn’t mean the story is over. Like any compelling crime drama, there’s always the possibility of a new season and a renewed push for justice, accountability, and reform.   

This bill confronted an uncomfortable truth. It peeled back the glossy illusion fed to us by television and demanded that we reckon with what happens after the credits roll. It reminds us that justice isn't just about identifying the guilty, it’s about honoring the rights of everyone, even after the show ends and the audience looks away. Because real justice isn’t a 42-minute drama with a clean ending and a fade to black. In real life, the story doesn’t stop when the cell door closes. The forgotten people behind those doors aren’t fictional characters, but rather neighbors, family members, and fellow Louisianans. And while most of us move on to the next episode, believing the case was closed, those folks remain trapped in a system that has already declared their debt to society paid, only to keep collecting.

Louisiana had an opportunity in the Overdetention Compensation Fund to take a long-overdue step toward accountability. More than that, the state had the opportunity to challenge this crime-drama narrative by acknowledging that the story isn’t over until every person receives not just a sentence, but a rightful release. House Bill 650 could have helped write a new kind of ending rooted in responsibility, restitution, and the pursuit of real, lasting justice.

Fortunately, there is a growing realization among Louisiana’s leaders that our overdetention problem is untenable. The state Department of Corrections claims that a newly installed computer system will fix this systemic problem. But only time will tell if they are right. And time is at the heart of this issue.

The failure of this bill isn’t the series finale; it’s a cliffhanger. And it leaves room for lawmakers, public officials, advocates, and citizens to return stronger and more determined. Because in real life, the stakes are higher, the consequences are lasting, and the need for change is far too urgent to fade out when the credits roll.