'My big mistake': How a former corrections officer became a prison drug smuggler

Corrections officer Barbara Devine grew nervous at the sight of the K-9 unit as she walked through security at Chillicothe Correctional Institution. The dog was sniffing everyone entering the prison that morning in late 2022. But Devine had a good reason to be worried: In her vagina was a condom-wrapped package with three ounces of meth and eight cell phone SIM cards. Corrections staff have recorded more than 56,000 drug confiscations in Ohio prisons since 2020, according to state data. The Marshall Project - Cleveland, Columbus Dispatch, Cincinnati Enquirer, Akron Beacon Journal and Canton Repository examined nearly 100 prison smuggling cases to understand how illegal drugs are entering secure facilities under constant surveillance. Prisoners — and even some workers — said staff are the most obvious and overlooked source of the smuggling. Workers have carried drugs or contraband into prisons in their bras, underwear, lunchboxes and water bottles for weeks or months before getting caught, according to investigative files. Since 2020, state prison officials have banned 390 vendors from prison property, mostly for smuggling or inappropriate relationships with incarcerated people. However, no reasons for banning are given on a list of 335 state employees, mostly corrections officers, who are not recommended for rehire. What's clear is that the criminal justice system has failed to hold accountable many bad actors with prison jobs. Devine's story is both common and extraordinary, starting — as most cases do — with the psychological manipulation of an impulsive, vulnerable, low-paid employee tempted by quick cash. Hard times and a 'big mistake' On that morning, Devine had just two days left as a corrections officer before starting a new job with the Ross County Sheriff's Office. She had been sharing custody of her three young children for about a year before taking the $18-an-hour prison job in 2019. Overtime would account for a quarter of her salary in the coming years, state records show. As a woman, she was dogged by constant threats and harassment from incarcerated men. The toxic environment weighed on her personal relationships, she said during an interview in state prison. She found it especially hard to care about anything after the sexual assault of a family member in late 2021. The assailant took a plea deal and would serve just one month in prison after spending 11 months in the Pike County jail, according to court records. A man incarcerated at Devine's prison found out and told her that he had the Aryan Brotherhood attack the assailant. She never reported the story to her superiors. "That was my big mistake," said Devine, who is now 36. From that moment, the man hounded Devine to bring in drugs, saying she owes him. Groomed to smuggle A short time later, another man messaged Devine on Facebook using a fake account. He told her he was incarcerated at Chillicothe Correctional Institution, communicating with her on an illegal cell phone. His real name was Adam. He knew everything about her life inside and outside of prison, she said, including the man connected to the Aryan Brotherhood who wouldn't leave her alone. Adam told her he would take care of it. The man with alleged ties to the Ayran Brotherhood stopped bothering her. He smooth-talked her. They developed a nonphysical relationship, Devine said. Within weeks, they were exchanging heart-shaped emojis and calling each other "babe" on Facebook. But it was all a ploy to convince Devine to smuggle for him. Adam did her a favor, just like the last guy. "It turned into owing him, but also making money," Devine said. She told him how she was fretting about paying bills, buying Christmas presents and missing a paycheck before starting her new job. He offered her $2,000 for the first drop. "He knew that I couldn't say no because of the situation I was in," Devine said. "I was just kind of at a point in my life where I'm like, 'OK, you know what? Fine.'" She had seen what happened to corrections officers suspected of smuggling in drugs. And it didn't deter her. "They just got offered the chance to resign and go on about their day, and nothing ever happened," she said. A tip leads investigators to Devine For the first shipment, Devine smuggled about 20 papers soaked in synthetic drugs, known as K2. Three days later, a corrections officer in the housing unit where she worked was assaulted by a prisoner while sitting at her computer. The officer barely turned her head toward the attacker when a left hook knocked the glasses off her face. Incarcerated bystanders stopped the beating. The corrections officer told a detective that the attacker was not the violent type. She suspected he was high on K2, which can send users into fits of rage when sprayed onto paper and smoked. The attacker told investigators that he had blacked out after sharing half a cigarette with another incarcerated man. He got 54 more months in prison for the assault. During the investigation, an informant told a state detective that it was Devine who had smuggled in the K2, and that she would be bringing in more drugs the next day. State troopers and the warden arranged for a full staff shakedown using a K-9 unit. As planned, the dog led investigators to Devine. Investigators found two vape pens, super glue and tattoo ink she was bringing in as a favor. "She was one of those COs — it's rare to find — that are willing to go out of the way to help somebody," said the man who was supposed to get the tattoo ink. Kindness, like weakness, is exploited behind bars, he said. Incarcerated dealers saw in Devine a friendly person who could be easily manipulated. "Unfortunately, she got placed in a bad situation," said the man, who asked not to be named to avoid retaliation from staff and other incarcerated people. A confession and a resignation Escorted into the investigator's office, Devine spotted her name scribbled on a whiteboard, half-covered by a sheet of paper. She knew then that they had been onto her all along. When asked if she had anything more than the ink, glue and vape pens, she dropped her head into her hands and fell silent. Seated across from her, State Trooper Sherri Wells could tell there was more. Wells, now retired, had seen it all. In her 34 years with the Highway Patrol, she had led some of the most sprawling prison drug smuggling investigations at multiple prisons across southern Ohio. "Obviously, you know it's illegal to bring drugs in, right?" she said to Devine during that recorded interrogation. "I know," Devine replied after confessing to the package inside her. "You understand how dangerous that is, if that condom would break, or something like that, that you could overdose, right?" Wells said. Wells walked Devine to a staff restroom and returned with the package that had been hidden inside her body. 'We need the drugs out of the prison' After she was indicted, Devine said she started receiving death threats from the people who gave her the drugs. They knew where she lived, the vehicle she drove, the schools her children attended. "They knew every detail," Devine said from a prison in Cleveland, where she's spending the final months of her three-year sentence. She recalled meeting a woman in parking lots for the two hand-offs arranged by Adam. Devine never asked for the woman's name or whom she worked for. It was, and remains, safer not knowing, she said. Adam would not cooperate with investigators. He was serving time at Chillicothe Correctional Institution for smuggling drugs into another prison, and other crimes. After this incident, officials transferred him to a higher security prison across the street. He was never charged for the drugs Devine smuggled. The people making the death threats didn't seem to care about what Devine might tell prosecutors, she said. They just wanted the money they lost when staff intercepted their drugs. "That's when it really hit me that so many people are involved," Devine said. Devine was sentenced to the Ohio Reformatory for Women in 2023. Inside, she saw Ohio's prison drug problem from another point of view. "I was behind bars and realized it was worse," she said. Women were overdosing daily, she said, preyed on by dealers for their addiction. "We need the drugs out of the prison," she said, "because how else are they going to get any better?"