“It’s raining today,” the wife of a prisoner smiles.  “Could you spare me five dollars?  That way I can get into the cell with my husband instead of staying out in the patio.”  At first we did not understand.  The guard standing nearby gave us the once-over and then said, “Lady, they’re gringos.  They can even give you ten dollars, so you don’t have to stay out in the rain.”  The officer quickly perceived that we were foreigners, and so was eager to adjust his price.
All you really have to do is give the name of a prisoner in order to get inside the Provisional Detention Center (CDP) of Quito, the jail where detainees are locked up while they await  trial in Ecuador’s capital.

Entry. Before you go in, it’s a good idea to make sure you have a few dollars with you.  The guards’ fees are very rigid and admit of no exceptions: one dollar to see a detainee, five dollars to visit on a non-visiting day, fifty cents to get the prisoner out of the cell. These are only some of the charges levied by a system in which corruption is so embedded that it has become the only law in force.  “Pay up or forget it”: no other rule exists inside the CDP.
Situated in one of the most colorful tourist areas of Quito, the Detention Center seems to safeguard the many foreigners who gather daily in the restaurants, internet cafes and folk-crafts shops in the quarter.   The dozens of police officers posted at the entrance and all around the edifice impart  to passersby a sense of security rarely felt  in one of the most dangerous cities in Latin America.
However, when  you find yourself  beyond the main gate to precincts belonging to the judicial system, the atmosphere changes.
At the entrance everything seems to be done according to the letter of the law.  “Leave your glasses and cell phone,” the guards instruct visitors.  Then comes the inspection:   they check  pockets, purses and jackets, and only then let you pass.  This only happens, however, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, the regulation visiting days.  On the other days of the week, the CDP does allow visitors, but the inspections  take place in a tiny dark room, where the guard on duty requisitions the five-dollar entry fee.
Once inside, you find yourself in an internal patio full of tables facing the cells on the three floors of the jail, where prisoners can meet with their families.  A prisoner can only leave the cell, however, by paying the guard fifty cents, while the family member  has to pay another fifty cents.  The exception is conjugal visits in the cell with wife or girlfriend: those cost an additional five dollars.
Because of these irregular financial arrangements, as you come in the entry, you are greeted by the cries of the guests waiting for trial.  They beg you to buy their watch or their prescription glasses.  You need many precious dollars  to  survive in the CDP.  The luckiest are able to scrape something together during a visit with relatives, but for the person who has nothing—like Pablo, a Colombian immigrant accused of robbery—getting a hot meal or a shower is a daily problem.
But that’s not all.  The male detainees can visit the women’s section by paying five dollars; if you find your “soul mate” here, you can pay yet another five dollars, and they’ll open the door of  a little room so you can have a private party with a female detainee—often without her consent.

Corruption at the highest level. You’re hit up for bribes even to get everyday necessities, as a young woman explains.  Teresa (as we call her to protect her actual identity) is the girl friend of P., arrested for fraud and receiving stolen goods.  “During the day, two meals are distributed to the prisoners: breakfast and lunch.  Whoever wants supper must not only pay for a plate of rice with chicken and beans, but also pay the guard who takes the order and the one who brings the hot meal into the cell.  Two dollars in addition to the regular price of supper.” Teresa emphasizes how senseless she found her first encounter with a system this corrupt.  “I have no alternative,” she says with resignation.  “If I want to go on seeing my P, I have to play along.  The first few times I protested, and I also threatened to expose the stuff that happens inside.  But to whom?  To other police who are just as dishonest?”
Ecuador, in fact, is among the most corrupt countries on a list drawn up just this year by the German independent organization Transparency International, and in South America it ranks right behind Paraguay and Venezuela.  
“A few days ago,” adds Pilar, sister of another detainee, “the director of the CDP came here, and we tried to make him see that, here inside, if you don’t have money you don’t have anything, not even the most basic rights: you can’t eat, you can’t shower, you have no right to an hour of fresh air.   But in the end,” she continued, incredulous, “they didn’t do a single thing, and every day we have to face the same jailers with their same tariffs.  So,” concludes Pilar, “I just prefer to stay silent, and I’ve learned not to carry cigarettes, magazines or pens, which the guards will confiscate at the entrance and never give back.”
A corrupt system, with a well established price list  that controls the lives of thousands of detainees, “presumed innocent” according to the Ecuadorian constitution, forced to live in overcrowded conditions, sleeping on the ground or two to a bed, 120 men sharing the same cell and the same bathroom, waiting for a trial that may not take place for years.